Free Me If You Can
by Lacadiva
Summary: Post Judgment Day: Peter doesn't signal Neal. He's arrested and faces life–or death–in prison unless he does what Kramer wants. Can Peter rescue Neal before it's too late?
1. Chapter 1

Free Me If You Can

By

Lacadiva

Rating: PG-13/R for violence. Disclaimer: All rights belong to Jeff Eastin and the gang at White Collar.

_Summary: Post-Judgment Day – a different take. Peter doesn't signal Neal, and Neal is arrested and faces life – or death – in prison. What kind of a dangerous game is Kramer playing? And if Neal plays along, will Peter be able to free him from this deal with the devil before Kramer gets Neal killed?_

DAY ONE

He walked through processing as if it were a dream and he was detached from it; as if he could watch what was happening to him from some safe place high above where nothing could touch or taint him.

Stand here. Turn this way. Walk. Stop. Remove your watch, wallet, keys. Remove your jacket.

_Be quick. Efficient. Obey. Make no eye contact. Don't smile. Don't sweat. Don't do anything beyond what they demand…_

Strip. Shower. Submit to a doctor's examination.

_Humiliation, fear, defeat, despair…_

His finely tailored suit, linen shirt and silk tie have been exchanged for a bright orange jumpsuit, DCDC emblazoned in giant day-glo letters on the back.

_District of Columbia Department of Correction…but he didn't do anything wrong…not this time…_

His Florsheims have been traded for simple canvas deck shoes, slightly loose, no strings…

_You might hang yourself…_

No belt –

_You might hang yourself…_

Change of clothing. A hygiene kit consisting of toothbrush, toothpaste, simple shampoo, small black comb, plain white soap. No razor – it must be requisitioned. Fill out forms. Walk the line. Follow directions.

"Caffrey, number 40251…"

_What would he be doing now, if things were normal? Making a coffee run. Sifting through case files, separating boring mortgage fraud cases from more interesting ones involving daring heists and bold larceny. Laughing with Peter. _

_Peter. Where was he now, and was he at all concerned about Neal's fate? Would he ever see his friend again? _

"Caffrey, 40251…!"

…_Walking the streets of Manhattan, hat tilted to the side, soaking up the sun. Mozzie walking double time trying to keep up with Neal's long, easy strides. Or sharing a nice Shiraz while Moz gesticulated wildly, recounting the tale of some wildly successful past con or describing the details of some new, intricate scheme…_

"I said CAFFREY!"

Neal jumped at the sound of his name being bellowed by the super tall, double-wide guard. He had become so lost in his own thoughts that for the moment, this place, this jail house, ceased for one brief moment to exist.

"Welcome to your new condo, 40251. Get in."

The Guard indicated the cell that would be Neal's until he was transferred to a Federal Maximum Security prison to serve the next twenty-five-plus years. Unless, of course, he gave in to Agent Kramer's offer. The thought made his stomach turn.

He was in Gen Pop, and every eye was upon him. Some watched him, sizing him up, trying to determine whether Neal would pose a threat or be somehow useful, or merely a new distraction. Neal felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he stepped forward, his prison allocated belongings clutched tightly, and crossed the threshold. The barred door slammed immediately. There was such a gruesome finality to that sound that what fraction of hope Neal was holding onto died the moment he heard the locking mechanism engage.

He was surprised to find that he was not alone in this six-by-ten space.

A little man Neal doubted would reach five feet if he stood on his toes sat legs akimbo on the narrow bottom bunk. He was smiling, the first smile Neal had seen in several days. He had a bushy mustache and slightly balding pate, and was thin and undernourished, nearly drowning in his orange jumpsuit.

"Hi."

Not exactly what Neal was expecting, cell mate-wise.

"I'm Vernon."

"Neal."

"Hi, Neal. You get the top bunk. I get sick on the top bunk. I like it better down here."

"By all means," said Neal as he placed his belongs on the thin top mattress.

"What're you in for, Neal?"

"Would you believe me if I said I was innocent?"

Vernon nodded. Of course he would. Neal wondered why this seemingly sweet little man had been tossed in this repugnant place. What could he have possibly done? Opened some else's mail by mistake?

"Breakfast is at seven. Lunch is at one. Dinner is at six. Lights out at eight-thirty. And…"

"Thanks, Julie," Neal said under his breath.

"No, it's Vernon."

"I know. I'm referencing Julie, the Cruise Director…"

Vernon looked confused.

"Love Boat?"

Vernon still looked confused.

"Never mind," Neal said, feeling a bit of irritation. "Non-essential pop culture reference. Forget it."

Vernon's smile returned. "Sometimes they have hot dogs and fries for lunch. Sometimes chicken patties, but they can be a little dry."

Neal hoisted himself up with seemingly no effort to sit on the top bunk. Vernon laughed.

"That was really cool. Can you teach me to do that, Neal?"

"Maybe. If you can be a little quiet."

"I can be quiet. I just talk a lot when I get excited. The last time I had a cellmate was couple weeks ago and I didn't think they were going to give me another cellmate till you showed up. I don't like being alone, and sometimes I get nervous in the dark unless there someone else around…"

"Vernon?"

"Yeah?"

"I have a headache."

"You can get Ibuprofen from the Doctor. She's very pretty. You can get regular aspirin too, but I'm allergic to aspirin. Most people aren't but I'm one of the lucky ones. Course, I'm just being sarcastic when I say I'm one of the lucky ones…"

"VERNON!"

Vernon became quiet. Guilt wormed its way through Neal's gut.

"Sorry I yelled at you."

"No big deal."

"It's just…"

"Jail sucks, right?"

"Yeah, Vernon," Neal said, slipping back down, landing softly on his feet. He sat on the edge of the lower bunk and smiled.

"You're right. Jail sucks."

"People need friends in here. I know you don't know me, Neal, but if you want to be my friend, I can be yours."

"I appreciate that, Vernon. Sure. Friends."

Neal offered a hand to shake. The little man smiled, his bushy mustache turning upward and he quickly grabbed Neal's hand a shook enthusiastically.

"Vernon…what exactly did you do…or not do…to end up here?"

"It's a long story, Neal," he said, his face suddenly turned quite sad. "The trial is still going on. Suffice to say a very bad man won't ever hurt a woman again."

Neal nodded, satisfied not to insist that the little man explain further.

"It's almost one," Vernon said, smiling again. "Time for lunch. I hope they have hotdogs and fries today. The chicken patties can be a little dry…"

"CAFFREY!"

Two guards were standing before his cell.

"What?"

"Let's go. You got a visitor."

~WC~

Neal was surprised to be escorted to the Warden's office. When the door was opened, it was not the Warden standing at the window, his back to Neal.

It was Agent Philip Kramer.

"I would say this moment was inevitable, Neal."

Neal shook his head, refused to speak. He merely stared Kramer in the eye.

"I was worried you might have found a way to escape already. How are they treating you so far?"

Neal said nothing, nostrils flaring, blue eyes ablaze.

"You can give me the silent treatment if you like, Neal. I'm not here to chit chat or waste your time. I wanted to give you one last chance. Be my C.I. Work for me. I can be a great boss, better than Peter. He was going to put you up in that rat-trap roach motel. Remember? Yes, I know all about it.

"Peter Burke put you on a tracking anklet. I know it was your idea. But that two mile radius…? Would you give Mozart a two mile radius? Jackson Pollock? Salvador Dali? Of course not. They're artists, and they need room to create. So are you, Neal. Your artistry is deception. I need you, Caffrey, but I'll find a way to get what I need without you. You however, have no idea what's coming to you if you remain here. In four weeks, you'll be doing what may as well be life at SuperMax…that's assuming you get out of here intact. I hear things can get a little harried at the DCDC. You're among murderers, gang-bangers, rapists…people who have no regard for life or the finer things. I don't want to leave you here. But I will."

"The answer's no, Kramer."

"Are you sure about that, Neal?"

"Positive."

"You think Peter's going to find a way out for you, don't you? I hate to burst your bubble, boy, but I've got a little pull with the DoC. I'm denying you all visitors but me. No Peter, no Sara Ellis, no…what's that little guy's name…the one with the glasses…? No one. Just me. I'll pop by occasionally to check on you, make sure they're treating you right. You can change your mind at any time. The guards can make the call for you. I'll be here within an hour of that call to escort you to freedom. No anklet, no two mile radius, just the freedom to be Neal Caffrey. Think about it."

The Guards stepped inside to escort Neal back to his cell.

"Neal?"

They stopped; Neal turned back to Kramer.

"You might want to tread lightly…people have terrible 'accidents' all the time…so I've heard."

The threat was clear. Neal went back to his cell, terrified.

~WC~

ONE WEEK LATER

Neal fought his way back to consciousness, clawing through a haze of pain and fear. He could not remember what had caused this agony, or even where he was at this particular moment.

A woman, hazel-eyed with hair pulled back tightly, leaned over him. Her white coat and the stethoscope slung around her neck helped Neal piece together a few ideas. But the why, and the question of how serious, remained to be answered.

"Easy, Mr. Caffrey. I'm Dr. Runyon. I need you to answer a few questions for me. Can you tell me your first name?"

"Neal…"

"Good. How many fingers am I holding up?"

He saw a fuzzy peace sign floating close to his face. "Two."

"Good."

She flashed a dim penlight in both eyes, no doubt checking the reaction of his pupils, Neal though. He lay still and let her do her work. When she finished, he reached up to touch his head. There was a thick gauze bandage adhered to a spot just above his left eye.

"What…happened?"

"I was hoping you could tell me, Mr. Caffrey."

Neal closed his eyes, hoping his thoughts and memory would coalesce into something that made sense. It did not.

"You were brought here unconscious, bleeding from a head wound."

"That would explain the headache," Neal said.

"You have no idea how it happened?"

Neal paused to think again. "No…"

"The wound suggests you were attacked, Mr. Caffrey. You were hit with what might have been a blunt instrument, by someone taller than you, and quite possibly left-handed. Does that help your memory?"

"I wish it did," Neal lied. He was starting to remember. Voices. Dread. Three men cornered him near the library. One of them pushed him. One of them mentioned Kramer. Yes.

_Kramer says hello…_

"I'm sorry," Neal whispered. "I don't remember…"

"_Kramer says give him a call…and don't bother trying to tell anybody about this. If you do, next time we'll kill you."_

"I think you're lying," Dr. Runyon said.

"I can't do anything about that, doc."

Neal eased up into a sitting position. His head swam.

"Do you feel nauseous?"

"A little."

Dr. Runyon urged Neal to lie back down. "You're not leaving the infirmary yet, Mr. Caffrey. I want to keep you under 24 hour observation."

"No argument from me."

She smiled. "You'd lose."

She sat on a small rolling chair and stared at Neal.

"This isn't your first time in here, is it, Mr. Caffrey?"

"You can call me Neal."

"I've read your file. You've had a lot of strange accidents since your arrival only a week ago."

"What can I say, I'm clumsy."

She stared at him, anger smoldering in her expression.

"Are you being targeted for abuse? Is it a certain prisoner? Or perhaps a guard? You can tell me."

Neal stared at the ceiling.

"Like I said, I'm clumsy."

"Right…"

Runyon left the exam room, returning to her desk on the other side of glass wall.

~WC~

TWO WEEKS LATER

"I'd say this moment was inevitable, Neal."

"I wish you'd stop saying that."

Neal could barely raise his head. The pain was quite close to unbearable, as it had been for days. One eye was still slightly swollen, but at least it was no longer shut. His vision, however, was still a bit blurred from the impromptu beating. The tender lump on the back of his head hurt bad enough to make him dizzy, but he could not stop running his fingers over it. His jaw hurt, as did his shoulder from his full weight falling upon it. His ribs had ached incessantly for over a week now, clanging like a gong when the injury was new, now reduced to a dull throbbing where his assailants had kicked him a few too many times for good measure.

Though he never even got a chance to throw a decent punch, Neal spent three days locked in solitary, an exceptionally hellish place the Guards referred to as "The Hole." That room, almost like the room he was in now, was the size of a small closet, and, just like this one, was virtually absent of light or air, filled with only the dank, pungent odors of fear, blood, sweat, and the misery of others. It was for his own protection, the Guards had laughingly told him as they dragged him by the arms, ignoring his pain-wracked protests, unconcerned that he was injured, disregarding the obvious signs of blood and his passionate petitions for medical attention.

Apparently, Kramer had a few of the prison Guards in his pocket as well.

"Come to gloat?" Neal managed to ask. "Rub my nose in a little more? I'm not going to be your errand boy. The answer's still no, Kramer."

"That's _Agent_ Kramer, Neal."

Special Agent Kramer unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat before Neal at the other end of the square wooden table. The locked room was all cold concrete floor and cinderblock walls without windows. The light was a sickly yellow, and made Neal – whose condition was bad enough – look far worse.

"I don't want to rub your nose in it, Neal. I just want you to see the light. I want to help you. Say yes to me, and the cage unlocks, the doors open, and you walk out of here a free man. The world becomes your private oyster again. No more surprise beatings. No more institutional food, skipped showers and cow-towing to the guards for a little extra protection on the yard. You're not made for prison, Caffrey. Beyond the obvious lack of luxury, you and I both know it doesn't suit you. A smart mouth and a pretty face…You're a target in here."

Neal hated the man even more. He managed to lift his head just enough to glare at him.

"Face it, Neal, you're not a fighter," Kramer continued.

"Put your gun and your badge aside, and I'll show you…"

"I don't think so. I don't want you any more damaged than you are now. Trust me, you're not a fighter. You're a thinker. A schemer of schemes. You slip in and out of the shadows. You connive, you manipulate. You bend and shape the truth like putty. Fighting is…honest. You're not an honest man."

"And you're an honest man?"

Kramer laughed. "Compared to your definition, your example, yes."

"Why don't you ask Peter Burke for his definition."

Kramer's smug smile dissipated at the sound of Burke's name. He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms.

"You miss him, do you, Neal? So do I. We were close, but all good things come to an end. It's inevitable."

"What do you want, Kramer?"

"Same as last week. Same as the week before. How much longer are you going to deny me? How long are you going to allow this to go on? You want to die in here?"

"If it means not being your errand boy, then yes. I'd rather die."

Kramer shifted in his seat as he considered a new tactic. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an electronic key, slapping it on the table like a domino.

"Ever hear of the Watergate Hotel, Neal?"

"I seem to recall a political scandal a back in the day…"

"That key opens the door of a deluxe suite, one of the finest in all D.C."

"Deluxe suite? That's all you've got?"

"We try to keep a moderate profile… It's yours. Say yes, and you're sleeping in a down covered king size bed with unlimited access to room service and one hell of a wine collection…"

Neal looked at the key. He didn't have to imagine how opulent the room would be. He'd seen it himself, a few years ago. It may as well have been ages ago.

"Refuse me again," Kramer continued, "and you get to go back to your cell with your meek little cellmate for company. The choice is yours, Neal. You can hunker down and pray, or you can say yes, and all this…all this bad stuff goes away. But if I walk out of this room without my yes, you have no guarantee I'll be back. You'll die here. Or wish you were dead when they're finished with you. And yes…I paid those prisoners, and the guards, to rough you up."

"I don't understand you, Kramer. How can someone Peter looked up to, trusted with his life, turn out to be a worse than…"

"You? I spent the best years of my life working for the bureau, Neal. I gave them everything. My youth, my marriage, my health. Took two bullets and an untold number of beatings during my brilliant career. I arrested enough bad guys to populate a small town. And what thanks do I get? A modest pension and heartfelt fare-the-well. Where's my big score? When do I get the sweet end of the lollypop? You've sat in the lap of luxury all your life. What have you done for your country? Or for anyone other than yourself? I sacrificed _everything_, and now they're sending me away with next to nothing, retiring me, putting me out to pasture. You're going to help me make a few things right, that's all, Neal. You're going to help me find my golden calf. You're going to make me a rich man. No, filthy rich. And when I'm sitting on some gorgeous island soaking up the sun and deciding between fresh lobster and cracked crab for breakfast, you'll be free, rich in your own right, and on your merry way. _Deny me_, you smug little son of a…deny me and I'll make sure you suffer every day for the rest of your short, unfortunate life."

Kramer knocked twice on the door, signaling the guard on the other side to open it.

"Oh, and Neal," he said, before exiting, "Have a nice dinner tonight."

~WC~

The line was moving slowly, as it always did. Neal took the opportunity to case the cafeteria, looking for potential attackers. If anyone was going to try anything, they would do it here and now, he thought, while there was enough activity to cover themselves.

The faces of the men around him were impassive and vacant. He could not discern their thoughts or motives. Perhaps he was merely being paranoid. Perhaps Kramer's comment was designed to cause him anxiety and fear, waiting for something that may not happen. But the beatings had been without warning before.

He noticed his tray was shaking slightly in his hands, and fought to steady them. He could not allow the inhabitants of GenPop to see his anxiety. He moved closer to the steam tray. All he had to do was keep his wits about him as he loaded up the tray, and make his way to a corner near the exit where he could watch the room from all angles. Should someone pose a threat, the plan was to hit him with the tray and run like hell.

"Hi, Neal."

Neal turned at the sound of the soft, sheepish voice of Vernon. He was wringing his hands nervously, and his cheeks seemed brightly flushed.

Neal motioned for Vernon to step ahead of him in line. But Vernon remained standing before Neal. He didn't go for a tray, nor did he seem remotely interested in food. He kept staring at Neal, tears welling up in his soft brown eyes.

"Vernon, what's the word?"

"Nothing good, Neal. Nothing good."

Usually, Vernon always had something positive to say. And a lot to say.

"What's the matter?"

"I told them, I don't want to hurt anybody. I don't like hurting people."

Neal shook his head, not understanding. Vernon was not violent person. He had a hard time believing that Vernon was on trial for Manslaughter. There was virtually nothing in his behavior or demeanor that said malice aforethought. The poor little man was terrified of something, or someone.

"Who did you hurt, Vernon?"

"Nobody yet. But I'm supposed to …"

"Who, Vernon?"

Vernon pulled something from his pocket. Neal couldn't see what it was, but looked down just as Vernon shoved it toward Neal.

"I'm sorry, Neal. I'm sorry…"

Neal felt something cold and jagged pierce his side.

"Ver…"

Vernon moved away quickly. Neal looked down to find the object sticking in his side, his shirt and the sharp thing growing wet and slick with blood. His blood.

"Vernon…what…?"

"I'm sorry, Neal. I'm so sorry. But they said if I didn't do it they would put me in The Hole forever. I can't be in small places, you know that, right?"

Neal dropped his tray on the floor. The loud clang made everyone turn to look.

"Vernon…"

"I'm sorry, Neal. I can't be in the Hole 'cause it would make me crazy…"

The room suddenly turned very gray. Neal lost consciousness the moment his knees hit the floor.

End Chapter One

Thanks so much for reading! I hope you liked it enough to comment! Have a great evening. _Lacsadiva_


	2. Chapter 2

Free Me If You Can

Chapter Two

By

Lacadiva

Rating: PG-13/R for violence. Disclaimer: All rights belong to Jeff Eastin and the gang at White Collar.

_Summary: Post-Judgment Day – a different take. Peter doesn't signal Neal, and Neal is arrested and faces life – or death – in prison. What kind of a dangerous game is Kramer playing? And if Neal plays along, will Peter be able to free him from his deal with the devil before Kramer gets Neal killed?_

WEEK ONE

Peter hung up the phone and stood stunned and angry, struck silent and momentarily immobilized by the news. It made no sense to him! It defied anything remotely justifiable…had to be illegal or unconstitutional…! Why would Neal….?

"What is it, hon?"

Elizabeth was by his side in an instant, gently squeezing his shoulder. She knew instinctively that whatever had provoked her husband to engage in this thousand yard stare, it had to have something to do with Neal Caffrey.

Peter realized he was holding his breath and inhaled sharply, willing the tension in his body to relax, but failing.

"No visitors," he said, just above a whisper.

El raised an eyebrow curiously.

"Neal doesn't want visitors? Not even us? Why wouldn't he…?"

"No, not Neal…" Peter said. "Someone else has decided that for him. No visitors until they move him to Federal prison, for his own protection..."

"Why would Neal need protecting?" asked El. "And from whom? It doesn't make any sense."

"Exactly."

"You think it's Kramer, don't you?"

Peter turned to his wife at the sound of his former friend and mentor's name, his expression turned sour, his very posture becoming more tense. There was a tremor in his voice as he spoke.

"It smacks of Kramer. He wants to keep me away from Neal. Keep all of us away from Neal."

"Can he do that?"

"It appears he's done it. At least for now. I'm going to make a few calls…see what I can find out."

"So…I guess we're not driving down to D.C. this weekend after all. I'd better cancel the kennel for Satchmo…"

"You might want to cancel.…"

Peter's voice trailed off as he realized El was already two steps ahead of him. She wrapped her comforting arms around him and held him tightly, restoring his calm, restoring his sanity of thought, and anchoring him to reality. He let his own arms slip around his wife, let his cheek rest against the silkiness of her dark hair that smell gently of lavender and vanilla.

"You'll fix this," she said, giving her husband a quick kiss. "If anyone in the world can help Neal, it's you."

He did not protest as Elizabeth broke contact to pick up and hand him the phone, but he did miss her warmth. She called Satchmo, attached his leash and walked out the front door, leaving Peter to do what only he could do.

Peter dial the phone, determined to do whatever it took to save his friend.

~WC~

WEEK TWO – INFIRMARY

Neal woke abruptly, unsure if the dangerous images assaulting his conscious memory were real or the residual stuff of nightmares. He felt as if a veil of numbness had been draped over his entire frame. But he could also tell that it was slowly receding, allowing pain to gradually reacquaint itself as its spindly tendrils crept through his bones, muscles and flesh. Neal weakly tried to sit up, and grit his teeth when a new pain, deep in his side, stood in protest.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Dr. Runyon was sitting by his bed on a short stool on rollers, a metal chart resting in her lap. Her eye makeup, though minimal, was slightly smeared, suggesting hours of hard work without retouching. Her thick dark hair was braided, yet looked as if a good brushing would do her good.

"We can't keep meeting like this," Neal said groggily. "People will talk."

"Very funny, Dr. Lector," she said, and smiled somewhat patronizingly, in hopes of discouraging her uncommonly handsome prisoner/patient from flirting with her. She scooted closer to the bed.

"How are we feeling?" she asked.

"Like _we_ were shanked…"

"Not surprising, since that appears to be exactly what happened. Did you see who did it, or do we chalk this up to another case of clumsiness?"

Neal said nothing, but tried ill-advisedly to sit up once more, and realized with an embarrassingly loud grunt that the pain medication was wearing off much faster now. Runyon stood to help him, supporting his near-dead weight with arms grown strong from moving patients about. She arranged the pillows behind him and waited until his breathing evened out, and a semblance of color returned to his blanched complexion before she began the routine of checking his vitals.

"How bad is it?" Neal asked a bit weakly.

"You were lucky," she said as she pulled back Neal's covers and lifted up the worn cotton hospital garb to reveal the clean bandage covering his wound. "Not too deep, but certainly deep enough to cause you quite a bit of discomfort and me a bit of concern for your health. Just try to lie still. Your stitches will remind you if you overdo it.

"I'd like to keep you in the infirmary overnight for observation. We'll send you back to your cell tomorrow morning if all goes well. Whoever did this to you wasn't intending to kill you. It's likely they were sending you a message."

"I don't know what that message could be," Neal said, attempting to sound mystified.

"Oh, please," Runyon spat. "You obviously like playing games, Mr. Caffrey, but I do not. Especially when people keep getting hurt."

"I'm not playing games…"

"How many attacks is it going to take before you open your mouth and save your own life? Someone is out to get you! It's blatantly clear. Unless you drop this 'inmate's code of silence' thing, and give me a name, it's going to continue happening until somebody else dies –"

"What do you mean _somebody else_?"

Runyon didn't hear him, but continued her diatribe. "- and that somebody is going to be _you_. I can't protect you unless you _trust me_."

Neal closed his eyes and willed the fiery pain blossoming in his stitched wound to recede. It didn't work.

"I don't know why I bother to even care about you people," she blurted. "It's obvious you don't."

Disgusted by his silence, Runyon made a few quick scribbles in Neal's chart and turned to leave.

"Someone threatened Vernon," he said in a conspiratorial whisper. "Little guy, bushy mustache."

Runyon stopped and turned back to Neal, her long dark braid landing heavily on her shoulder.

"Go on."

"They told him if he didn't shank me, he'd be thrown in the hole."

"You're saying he was threatened by a guard?"

"I'm not saying that. I'm just saying, someone threatened Vernon, coerced him, terrorized him, into hurting me. The little guy's probably beside himself. I don't want to get him in trouble …"

"Vernon Hackett is dead."

Neal reached out and grabbed hold of metal bar on his bed, ignoring the pain, ignoring the I.V. needles buried into the back of his hand, and pulled himself forward.

"What…?"

"He hanged himself…last night," said Runyon, struggling to sound as neutral as she could. "I'm sorry."

"Why would he…"

"Guilt, I imagine. Guilt over what he'd done to you. The question is why did he do it?"

Pain forced Neal back down. He breathed heavily, trying to control the dizziness and nausea that threatened to overcome him. The whites of his eyes burned red with tears. His face was suddenly slick with sweat, and his body felt a deathly chill coursing through it.

"How?" he asked. "How did he do it?"

"He used a sheet. It's not uncommon, but it is unfortunate. Perhaps if you had been a little more forthcoming initially, this could have been avoided."

Anger burned inside Neal now.

"Don't put that on me," he said through clenched teeth. "I didn't ask for this!"

"I can't help you unless you talk to me."

Neal shook his head. "You don't get it. This isn't a prison thing. The man who's pulling the strings is…"

Neal instantly fell to silence when a Guard walked in and gave the infirmary a cursory look before turning to Runyon.

"Hey, doc." His tone was casual, but spiced with menace. "How's the patient?"

"What do you want?" the Doctor demanded protectively.

"Got a visitor for blue eyes."

Runyon stepped to the door, almost running smack into the massively proportioned Guard.

"There are no visitors allowed in the infirmary. Only medical personnel…"

"I think," Kramer said as he crossed the threshold, extending a hand, "we can make an exception this once. You must be Denise Runyon."

"_Doctor_ Runyon."

"Pleasure."

"And you are…?"

"_Agent_ Kramer, F.B.I." He held up his badge and I.D. quickly and smiled congenially. "I've come to check on our boy Neal. Heard he had a little run in with business end of a sharp object. How's he doing?"

"This is highly irregular," she protested as Kramer made his way to Neal's bed. She also noted how much more agitated Neal appeared to be. Were it not for the guard with his hand resting menacingly on his Taser, she was quite certain Neal would have ripped out the I.V. needles, attacked the agent and run.

"I appreciate that, Dr. Runyon, but I have a vested interest in Mr. Caffrey's welfare. Have a chat with your superiors and they'll confirm that where Neal is concerned, I have carte blanche to do whatever I see as necessary. That includes bypassing your security protocols. Now, would you kindly give me and Mr. Caffrey a bit of privacy? You and I can chat afterwards."

His words may have been polite, but there was something quite dark and sinister in his intentions. Unable to do anything at the moment but obey authority in her position, Runyon merely nodded and left the room to return to her small office.

The Guard remained by the door, arms crossed. No way anyone could get past him alive.

Neal simply stared unblinkingly at Kramer as the Agent took over Runyon's rolling stool and sat next to the bed, smiling.

"Imagine my shock and concern when I heard you'd been injured. Again. Sounded serious. How are you, my boy?"

Neal said nothing. Just stared.

"Sorry, I would have brought you flowers, but they don't allow 'em on the floor. Might smuggle a chisel in the vase, I supposed."

"A man is dead because of you," Neal finally said, and noticed a subtle change in Kramer's smug smile. "His name was Vernon."

"I heard," said Kramer. "Sad and unfortunate situation."

"That's all you have to say?"

"I hope you're not blaming me, Neal. His blood is on _your_ hands, not mine. He's dead because you're being stubborn and unreasonable. How many more casualties will it take till you see things my way?"

"What you're asking me to do is…"

"Wrong? Tell me Neal…when did you get so high and mighty, so noble and righteous? You think that because you pulled the wool over Peter Burke's eyes by nabbing a few bad guys, that somehow your hands are washed clean? That suddenly you're one of the good guys now? How many ways have you already worked out to escape this place? Hm? How many times have you imagined knocking out a guard or two before leaping the fence? You're deluding yourself if you think you can keep your nose clean the rest of your life. Tell me, have you entertained the possibility of pulling a few side jobs while working side by side with Agent Burke? Thought about moving a little money around, surreptitiously selling off a few stolen masterpieces behind his back? Silk ties and fine wines cost a little more than the bureau pays consultants. Those shoes you were wearing when I arrested you…I bet they cost more than my last paycheck. Face it Neal, you're not one of the good guys, and you're not comfortable going cheap. You were born to steal. You did it for Peter; why is it so difficult for you to work with me?"

"Peter Burke is my friend."

"I can be a better friend."

"You're right about me, Kramer. I'm not a good man. But I want to be. I can be. You want to know the difference between you and Peter? He wants me to do the right thing. Always. Peter wouldn't dream of asking me to do something illegal for his personal gain. Hell, he wouldn't even accept tickets to a baseball game from me if he thought I was playing him. Every time I walk into an undercover operation, he sweats a little. Not because I might blow it for him, but because he's afraid I might have to take a bullet. Something tells me you'd never have my back, never have that level of concern for me, or anyone else for that matter. So go peddle your bull someplace else. Vernon's dead, but not because I won't play ball. He's dead because you can't have what you want. Yeah, I'm a thief, and a liar, and a con. But you're a user, Kramer. And in my book, that's a just as bad, if not worse. Now, if you don't mind too much, I'm in a fair amount of pain, and I'd like to sleep now."

Kramer cheeks reddened as anger and frustration threatened to spill over. He balled up a fist, rubbed his protruding knuckles, feeling the thick dried skin pulling taunt over each hard-boned protrusion. Then slammed his fist hard into Neal's wounded side.

Neal cried out so loudly, so unexpectedly, that his throat felt as if claws had rent his vocal chords, leaving a bloody trail of damaged tissue behind. Tears sprang to his tightly closed eyes, squeezing through and running hot trails down the sides of his face. He felt his teeth sink into his lips, and he tasted his own blood. He wanted so badly to raise a fist to Kramer, to return the favor. To knock the agent to his knees and bludgeon him with his bare hands until his own knuckles were red raw pulp. But his body would not allow it. The pain in his side sickened him to his stomach, and the exhaustion of injury and the residual fuzziness from pain medication had weakened him to the point of miserable incapacity. He shook, trembled, but fought to keep back the gorge rising in him, the bile threatening to explode from inside.

Dr. Runyon raced back into the room, going directly to her patient.

Kramer stood and stepped back, his face a focused mask of blank passivity.

"He was fine," the agent said. "Guess he moved wrong. Tore his stitches. You might want to consider putting him under restraints. For his own safety as well as yours."

"I'm going to need you to leave. Now," she said firmly, leaving no room for negotiating.

"Fine. I'll be waiting for you in your office. We need to chat about Mr. Caffrey's care and feeding. There are a few things you need to know about him _to protect yourself_."

As he made his way to the door, the Guard close behind him, Kramer said, "Don't let those big blue eyes fool you. He's a very dangerous man. One girlfriend wound up being blown up on a plane. The other…Sara Ellis, the belle of Sterling Bosh…"

Neal stilled himself to listen, pushing back the pain to focus on Kramer again.

"… she's about to become the focus of an undercover investigation involving embezzlement, art theft, and various sundry crimes…"

"You leave Sara out of this…!"

"I wonder how she'll fare in a women's prison…not well, I imagine…"

"KRAMER…stay away from her…I'll kill you…I'll…."

Neal's next words died unspoken, as he began drifting into a hazy semi-consciousness from pain meds swiftly administered via syringe by Dr. Runyon. He could hear, but responding was more than his system could handle.

"Threatening a federal agent is a punishable offense, Neal. You could get life for that…" Kramer said with a malevolent chuckle. "See you in forty-eight hours."

Those were the last words Neal heard from Kramer before he allowed himself to be taken all the way under, to sleep, and dream.

_To escape._

~WC~

He awoke, startled and filled with dread. How long had it been since Kramer left? An hour? A day? Neal noticed the soft light from heavily barred windows filtering into the room. It was just pass sunset.

He recalled his visit from Kramer, and remembered how he had threatened to go after Sara. Who would be next on his radar to torture? Mozzie? Peter?

He thought of Peter, and all the ways Kramer could make life difficult for the veteran agent's former protégé. A simple trumped up charge could trigger another OPR investigation. The merest hint of suspicion or mistrust would eat away at Peter. Not only would Peter's position and reputation be at risk, but what toll might it take on the Burke's marriage?

And what of Sara's reputation? Sterling Bosch was her life. How easily a life could be destroyed…

He could not allow it.

Neal was giving serious consideration to contacting Kramer in the morning, to giving in, when Dr. Runyon entered the twilit room.

She remained by the door, hands shoved deep into the pockets of her lab coat, staring at Neal in the burgeoning darkness.

"I spent two hours repairing your stitches. How did that happen?"

Neal said nothing.

"You're going to tell me what happened, or I'm not leaving this room."

Neal remained silent, but focused on the yellowing ceiling tile. His mouth was dry, and a headache was beginning to batter the nerves behind his eyes.

"Did _he_ hurt you?" she asked plaintively. "Agent Kramer…did he strike you, cause your wound to reopen?"

"I moved wrong. Tore my stitches. End of story."

He could hear the heavy, frustrated intake of her breath, and expected the doctor to turn and walk out. Abandon him. To her credit, she remained, and took a step closer to the bed.

"You're a fool if you think I believe that. He's the one, isn't he?"

"The one what?"

"The one who's terrorizing you…orchestrating these brutal assaults against you."

Neal remained silent.

"Why is he doing this? He's an F.B.I Agent!"

Neal looked at her, not disguising his anger.

"One of the good guys, right?"

"I don't think he's one of the good guys at all. So why don't you blow the whistle on him? Why are you afraid of him?"

"I'm not afraid of him. I'm afraid for people I care about."

She took another step forward. He noticed, and let his eyes find hers.

"Kramer said some pretty disturbing things about you. Even if he were crooked, how do I know helping you won't come back to bite me in the derriere?"

Neal adjusted slowly and easily in the bed to relieve the tingling in an arm.

"What did Kramer say about me?" he asked.

"He said you would try to convince me to help you by saying people's lives were in danger."

"Did he? What else did he tell you?"

"He said I shouldn't believe anything you say…that you were a liar."

"I am."

She paused for a second while she considered the Star Trek conundrum he had presented her with his confession.

"Go on," he prompted her.

"He said you were a con man, and that you were dangerous. And if you asked for my help, or asked to call anyone, or said anything to me at all, I was to let him know."

"Are you going to tell him?" Neal asked softly.

She crossed her arms. "I haven't decided yet. I'm trying to decide which of you is the lesser of two evils."

"Let me know when you decide."

Neal turned to look up at the ceiling again, essentially ending his part of the conversation.

Runyon was about to turn a walk away, but something kept her riveted to the spot where she stood.

"How can I help you?"

Neal kept his eyes on the ceiling as he spoke.

"I need a cell phone."

"Prisoners are not allowed …"

"I KNOW that. But I need to make a call."

Runyon waited for a beat, to see if Neal would turn back to her. When he did not, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, old style flip phone, the kind that only sent and received calls. No texting, no frills, no Smart Phone bells and whistles. She kept it locked away usually, in case of emergencies.

"Who do you want to call?"

Neal said nothing.

"Who's Peter Burke?" she asked.

Neal turned back to her quickly, taken aback by her question. He immediately noted the phone in her hand, but fought to keep his eyes trained on hers. _Don't look desperate_, he told himself.

"Kramer said you might ask to call a man named Peter Burke," she explained. "Who is he? A mob boss? Drug dealer? Murderer?"

"A federal agent. He's with the bureau in New York City. He's my friend and the only truly honest man I've ever known." He reached out a hand. Let me call him…"

"No," she said, crossing her arms across her chest again as if to self-protect.

"You said you wanted to help me. This is only way you can. Please," Neal pleaded.

She considered her options, weighing them carefully. She flipped the phone open. The sickly green light from the keypad illuminated her face, giving her an otherworldly countenance.

"Give me the number. I'll call him."

End Chapter Two

Thank you so much for reading! Hope you're enjoying this so far. If so, please do post a review! Much appreciated! I'll be back in two weeks with the next chapter.


	3. Chapter 3

Free Me If You Can

Chapter Three

By

Lacadiva

Rating: PG-13/R for violence. Disclaimer: All rights belong to Jeff Eastin and the gang at White Collar.

Summary: Post-Judgment Day – a different take. Peter doesn't signal Neal, and Neal is arrested and faces life – or death – in prison. What kind of a dangerous game is Kramer playing? And if Neal plays along, will Peter be able to free him from his deal with the devil before Kramer gets Neal killed?

Note: I'm taking a few liberties just for the sake of storytelling. So if there are glaring inaccuracies, please forgive and indulge me. It's all for fun anyway, right?

~WC~

It had been a long time since he'd had to use such a complicated alias.

Neal would have been so proud of him.

Peter made it past the first phase of security without a hitch. They'd even bought his phony I.D. He'd been scanned for concealed weapons and now stood in a cold, drab area waiting for his "credentials" to clear. If there was a problem, it was quite possible that Peter would have a nightmare of legal issues to dig out from under. It could cost him his badge, his status, even his job.

But it was worth the risk.

Today, he was Dr. Benjamin Wallach, Neurologist, on loan from George Washington University Medical Center to consult on a head injury case at the behest of Dr. Denise Runyon.

Runyon's middle-of-the-night phone call – the first call – was a hang-up. Peter had logically assumed that it was a pocket-dial or wrong number and settled back down to sleep. Then it rang again.

"Who is this?" he demanded harshly while placing a calming hand upon his stirring wife's shoulder.

"I need to speak to a…Peter Burke."

"I'll ask again…"

"You don't know me. My name is Dr. Runyon. I'm a physician for the DOC…Department of Corrections…"

"I know what DOC stands for," Peter quipped impatiently, still in the dark and hoping to rush the caller to come to her point quicker.

"…in Washington, D.C."

Peter sat up rigidly now, triggering Elizabeth to fully awaken and sit up next to him. "Is it about Neal?" she whispered and moved closer to listen.

Peter quickly nodded.

"Go on," he said, and put the phone on speaker so that Elizabeth could also hear.

"I do the night shift four nights a week. One of our prisoners has been brought in twice already this week, and a couple times the week before. He says he knows you…and that you're an honest man…"

"Is it Neal Caffrey?" Peter asked.

"Yes. Are you?"

"Am I what?"

"An honest man?"

"If you want to know if you can trust me, the answer's yes. Tell me what's wrong with Neal."

"Someone is targeting him. He's been beaten, more than once. He claimed they were accidents at first. Prisoners make it a point never to rat on other prisoners because…well…"

"I understand," Peter said, his impatience reaching the point of saturation. "Is Neal all right?"

"Well, yes and no. This last time, this last attack was rather serious. He was stabbed with a makeshift weapon, a shank, or shiv, they call it…and lost a fair amount of blood before the Guards brought him to the infirmary."

Peter considered taking the phone off speaker when he saw the look of hurt and concern on his wife's face. But she reached out to stop him before he could, determined to listen and know.

"How serious is he?" Peter asked.

"He's in stable condition, but I want to keep him in the infirmary, separated from Gen Pop for the time being."

"You're concerned there may be another attempt..."

"Someone is definitely out to get your friend. So far he's suffered a mild concussion, bruised ribs, a black eye…he's had stitches, staples, you name it. I'm as concerned for him psychologically as I am for his physical well being. I thought you could perhaps help him, though I don't know how. I'm not sure how much I can trust Mr. Caffrey, but I can't in good conscience ignore the fact that he is in danger here. The only alternative to keeping him here is solitary confinement…."

Her voice, already soft and conspiratorial, became even softer and more foreboding.

"…but I don't think I would trust his safety with the Guards. He says you're an F.B.I. agent, too, and the most honest man he's ever known…"

Peter ran a hand through his hair and let her words process through his well trained, analytical mind.

"You said," he began, "that Neal said I was an F.B.I. agent, too. He was never an agent…"

"Not Neal," she corrected. "Agent Kramer."

The knot forming in the pit of Peter's stomach twisted and grew, radiating discomfort through his entire body. He swiftly but gently pulled away from Elizabeth and practically leapt to his feet.

"Phillip Kramer?"

"He was here a few hours ago. Your Mr. Caffrey plays a good game, but I can tell he's terrified of that man, and it's more than just a good guy/bad guy thing. I heard him threaten Neal…at least I believe it was meant as a threat. I could be wrong…but I believe Neal…he's thinks this Kramer is behind the beatings."

"No," Peter said adamantly, "you're not wrong. I need to see Neal. How do I do that?"

"You can't. He's not allowed visitors, except for Kramer.

"There has to be a way."

"It's impossible. Unless…"

"Unless?"

The line was silent for a moment; Peter knew the good doctor was weighing it out, counting the cost. She could easily lose her job, or her license to practice medicine. And what would Kramer do to her?

"I can't think of anything," she said, hopelessness tingeing her voice.

Peter felt his stomach turn at the thought of Neal being further victimized. How far would Kramer go? Would the next call be to inform him that Neal was –

"There might be a way…it's a long shot…" Runyon finally said.

"Tell me."

"This goes against everything I believe in…the oath I took…"

"To _do no harm_?"

"Yes."

"If we don't help Neal, a lot more harm will be done. You can help put an end to this."

"Swear to me he's not a dangerous man. Promise me I'm not helping a murderer or a psychopath."

Peter took a deep breath. He could not believe he was about to defend a criminal. But Neal was not your average criminal. Never was. He had a heart, and he had an every-increasing desire to do the right thing. Peter worked hard to encourage that. He was not about to let all that hard work go to hell.

"Neal George Caffrey is a liar, and a thief, and if this were two years ago, I wouldn't have trusted him as far as I could throw him. But he's changed, still changing. While I might not give him my P.I.N. number, I'd trust him with my life. Help me save his. He doesn't belong there. He belongs here. Free. Working with me. Help me help him."

"I have an idea…it's pretty insane, but it could work. If Neal were to suddenly develop some unusual symptoms, something to serious to ignore, but not so serious that he needed to be transferred, I pretty sure I could arrange to bring in a consulting physician…"

"Dr. Wallach?"

Peter snapped back to the present, perked up and offered the uber-muscular Guard a professional smile. "Yes?"

"This way."

He followed to Guard through a narrow corridor of cold concrete walls and through several locked doors and to the Infirmary.

~WC~

"Peter!"

Neal practically fell from the bed when he saw his friend and former partner standing in the doorway of the infirmary.

Both Runyon and Peter moved forward quickly to encourage Neal to lie back and keep still.

"Peter…"

They hugged, Neal's hands clenched tightly into fists against Peter's back.

"How…?"

Peter broke away from the embrace to sit on the rolling stool by the bed. "Dr. Runyon needed a consulting physician to look at that hard head of yours."

"Nice. So you broke out a new alias just for me. I'm flattered. And relieved." To Runyon, and with a classic winning smile, Neal said, "Thank you. You just saved my life."

"We're not out of the woods yet," said Peter.

"Wow, listen to you," Neal chided him. "You sound just like a real doctor. Nice job."

"We have only one hour, Neal. So tell me everything you know or think you know about Kramer and the assaults against you."

"Let's start with Kramer," Neal said, and told Peter everything.

~WC~

Peter was pensive and tense, arms crossed at his chest as he listened to Neal's detailed story. It was horrible, almost implausible considering what he used to know and expected of Phillip Kramer. But if all of it was true, Peter's old friend and mentor had gone bad. Very bad.

"I'm sorry, Peter," Neal said, rubbing the stubble on his face. "But money corrupts. I know. And apparently, Kramer has the opportunity to acquire quite a lot of it, and he wants to use me to get it."

"Do you have any idea what he's after specifically?"

"No. But whatever it is, it's enough rival King Solomon himself, buy his own little island and retire. We're talking more than a Raphael or a Degas."

"Tell me you're not curious," Peter said, challenging Neal.

"Maybe a little intrigued. But I would never…"

"I want you to..."

"You want me to what, Peter?"

Peter exhaled hard and stood. He began pacing, hands on his hips as his thoughts formed and coalesced, as he began to strategize and scheme. Clarity burst through the haze of ideas, chugging through his veins hotly, and sent a jolt of adrenaline through him as a plan was born.

"I want you to say yes to Kramer."

"What? No! Peter, I'm through…"

"Listen to me…"

"I'm NOT going to steal for him. Forget it."

"Listen to me! I want you to contact Kramer and tell him you'll do it. Tell him…whatever he wants, you'll do it."

"Wait…"

"You see where I'm going?"

"Not conclusively…"

"Neal…"

"I don't want to work for him."

"You don't," Peter said, smiling triumphantly. "You still work for me. You got that? Doesn't matter what your jacket says. Doesn't matter what the Bureau says, or what Kramer says. It only matters what I say, and I say you still work for me. You're my C.I., and I'm about to send you undercover…"

Neal smiled now.

"Peter…you want me to…"

"…go undercover, root out Kramer's plan…"

"…go along with it…"

"…and compile as much evidence as you can against that sunnova…"

"…and report back to you…"

"…everything."

"Twist my arm," Neal said with a smile.

"It could be dangerous," Peter warned.

"It's dangerous here," Neal reminded him.

"Point taken. Neal…"

"I know. No stupid moves. No heroic gestures. Just go along with Kramer's game plan."

"Observe and report."

"Like Paul Blart, Mall Cop."

Peter looked at Neal questioningly.

"Obscure pop culture reference. Please continue."

Peter checked his watch and frowned.

"The Guard should be returning any minute to escort me out of here. Are you clear on what you're doing?"

"I'll put in a call to Kramer as soon as you're clear of here. One question: will I be held answerable for whatever it is Kramer wants me to steal…or have to return any monetary reward Kramer might feel obliged to pay me for services rendered?"

"What you do with whatever Kramer gives you is your business. You just give me enough evidence to stop him and put him away."

"Can you? Can you really put Kramer away? He was your friend. A father figure. You'll be essentially choosing an ex-con C.I. over a brother in arms. If you cross this river, Peter, there's no going back."

Peter's face fell as if the realization of what he was about to do had just become ultra clear to him. He shrugged his shoulders and looked at Neal squarely.

"What choice do I have? Kramer's dirty. He's left the fold. He left a long time ago. I can't ignore it. But I can do everything I can to stop it."

"Then it's on," said Neal.

They heard the Guard approaching, almost upon them.

Neal asked, "How will I get info to you?"

"We'll have to improvise. I'll think of something. You wait for me to contact you."

"I want you to bring Mozzie in on this. He can help you, especially if you have to step a little outside the bureau."

Peter placed a reassuring hand on Neal's shoulder.

"I'll talk to him. You be careful, Neal. Kramer can sniff a phony from twenty paces. Do as he says, keep low on his radar. I'll be in touch with you as soon as I can."

"You got it, Butch."

"See ya, Sundance."

~WC~

Kramer arrived at noon the following day, and sat in the visiting area alone. He unbuttoned his suit jacket, hoping to get comfortable. It was once his favorite jacket, but it no longer fit as well as it used to. No matter. He would soon have a closet full of suits to choose from, enough to rival Neal Caffrey.

Just then, Neal entered, escorted by a sullen Guard, who sat his charge at the small table facing Kramer and left them alone, locking the door behind him.

"Imagine my surprise when I got the message that you'd called," Kramer said, smiling and quite satisfied with himself.

"I'd say it was inevitable," said Neal. "You won. You made your point. How do I get out of here?"

"Not so fast," the Agent said, holding up a hand. "What changed your mind?"

"Getting shanked was…inspirational. You were right. I can't take this…being locked up. I'm losing my mind in here. I've barely slept. And a couple of my fellow inmates have been eyeing me like a dessert on an 'al a carte' tray. You want me to steal, I'll steal."

"Oh…steal is such a dirty word," Kramer said. "I prefer the term 'liberate.'"

"Call it whatever you like, Agent Kramer. I want to be your C.I. Make it official."

"And what about Peter Burke?"

"What about him?"

Kramer's smile widened. "You talk a good game, Neal. But I wonder how much of it is smoke and mirrors. You'll have to prove yourself if you want my favor."

"How do I do that?"

"Let me worry about that," Kramer said as he rose, re-buttoning his jacket. "I know you, Caffrey. You're motives are never clear or selfless. I'll figure out what your angle is eventually."

He moved toward to the door and knocked hard once for the Guard to let him out.

"Don't think you can double cross me, Neal. Don't think you can pull the wool over my eyes, or dazzle me with your charm. I hate you Neal, and could put a bullet between those big blue eyes of yours quite easily, with little to no provocation. I will, if you lie to me. Ever. If you think you're going to run and tell Peter or inform on me to the bureau, you won't get far. But if you do what I tell you, I'm positive our arrangement could be beneficial to both of us. Don't blow it, Neal. This is the best deal you'll ever have."

The Guard opened the door. Kramer hesitated before stepping through.

"You'll be out by morning."

"Thank you, sir."

"Did you just call me sir? I think I like the sound of that. Welcome to D.C. Art Crimes, Neal."

END CHAPTER 3

Hope you enjoyed. Next update in 2 weeks. Please, if you dug it, let me know it. Review and comment if it's on your hearts. Thanks.


	4. Chapter 4

Free Me If You Can

Chapter Four

By

Lacadiva

Rating: PG-13/R for violence. Disclaimer: All rights belong to Jeff Eastin and the gang at White Collar.

_Summary: Post-Judgment Day – a different take. Peter doesn't signal Neal, and Neal is arrested and faces life – or death – in prison. What kind of a dangerous game is Kramer playing? And if Neal plays along, will Peter be able to free him from his deal with the devil before Kramer gets Neal killed?_

_Note: I'm taking a few liberties just for the sake of storytelling. So if there are glaring inaccuracies, please forgive and indulge me. It's all for fun anyway, right?_

FOUR WEEKS AGO

It was a short trip to D.C. from New York, under two hours. The metal cuffs were digging unmercifully into Neal's wrists. He'd ask to have them removed – where would he go? They were, after all, thirty thousand feet in the air. He wasn't suicidal – he wouldn't jump, though the thought of such an outrageous action seemed almost preferable to what was now in store for him. Regardless, Kramer had silently denied his request with a wry smile. The rest of the flight was quiet until the pilot announced their descent into the Dulles International. Hope descended as well, disappearing even as they began to break through the clouds and the details of the city began to take shape below, seemingly rising up to meet them.

"You'll like D.C.," Kramer announced, with the visage of the Washington Monument in miniature over his shoulder. "A lot like New York, just smaller, a little less trendy. Corporate. Lots of suits. You'll fit right in."

Neal said nothing, refusing to even make eye contact with the agent.

"Ever see the Cherry Blossoms along the Tidal Basin, or Hain's Point? Gorgeous. Spring time in Washington is darn near magical. Of course," Kramer continued, "you won't get to see much of the city from behind bars. Be a shame. You still have time to change your mind. I can make a call, exchange that prison transport waiting for you for a black luxury sedan."

Again, Neal said nothing, choosing to stare out of the window and enjoy what he assumed was going to be the last bit of sunshine he was going to see as a free man for a long while.

Kramer sat back and sipped the dregs of his cold coffee just as the flight attendant warned that they were about to land.

Neal closed his eyes, feeling his stomach drop as the plane did, not just from the flight but from the thought that his old life was dead. No more desk in the corner by the entrance of New York Field Office. No more coffee runs. Thrilling cases, tense take-downs, dramatic arrests. No more surveillance van shenanigans or the adrenaline rush of improvising when an undercover assignment goes awry. No more stern looks of reproach from Peter, or the polar opposite warm look of approval and unspoken pride when a case is successfully closed. No more late night work sessions at the Burke household, drinking decent coffee or having a home cooked meal for two expanded to three. No more walking Satchmo, crashing on the couch, intruding on the Burke's morning routine or occasional gatherings of all the usual suspects who Neal now considered his family.

It was all over.

Neal let slip a deep and melancholy sigh and instantly regretted letting Kramer know his heart was circling the drain, dying. He looked up to where Kramer sat only to find Vernon sitting there, wringing his small, knotted knuckled hands together anxiously.

"I'm sorry Neal!"

Neal awoke with such a sudden jolt that his entire body felt pain. He gasped, realizing that he had been holding his breath as he slept. The sheets were damp and cold from his sweat.

He was no longer in jail. It took him a moment to shake the disorienting dream from his head and remember where he actually was.

In a king sized bed with a black wrought iron canopy. Pristine white down comforter and pillows. Egyptian cotton sheets. The smell of fresh cut flowers. The coolness of a working air conditioner. The sun was peeping playfully through drawn off white drapes concealing a huge picture window.

He was in a deluxe suite at the Willard InterContinental Hotel. This was to be his new temporary home. Correction - his new prison.

He threw back the covers and sat up, letting his feet dangle off the side of the ultra-high bed, letting his toes brush the soft beige and white checkerboard carpeting. He wore only his prison-issued underwear; the suit he'd worn to jail lay in a crumpled pile on the floor. Before he fell into bed, as he stripped out of his clothing the night before, he swore that he would never wear that suit again.

He checked the digital clock on the ornate bed table next to him (his big blue eyes went wider when he realized he had slept over fourteen hours). He stood, stretched and regretted it when the still-healing shank wound cried out to be remembered and respected, causing Neal to double over a bit and clutch his side as he took the many steps toward the extravagant bathroom. On the way, near a giant bouquet of exotic flowers, Neal spied a small white card with his name on it. He flipped it over and read the back silently.

"_Neal, take the weekend off. Do whatever you like. A car will pick you up, 7:00 am Monday. PK."_

Phillip Kramer

How very generous of him, Neal thought sarcastically, and tossed the card to the floor.

He took the longest shower on record, not wanting leave the generous and invigorating spray of hot water that pummeled his body or the thick, tension taming steam that enveloped him. It was as if he wanted to cleanse and extract from every cell of his body all remnants of that place of incarceration, as if the smell of the place would never leave his body unless he punished it clean.

After the shower, he rapped his reddened self into a cool, soft robe provided by the Willard and padded barefoot back out into the main room of his suite. Thought not much of a television watcher, he turned on the wide screen and put on CNN to catch up with whatever was going on in the world, then picked up the phone to call for room service.

There was a minute click, subtle and no doubt unrecognizable to those who were not schooled in surveillance methods or necessarily looking for that sort of thing. But he knew. His phone was bugged. No doubt, so was his entire room. He tried not to look for it, tried not to look as if he had even noticed, just in case the surveillance included a live video feed to some bogus maintenance vehicle parked somewhere out on Pennsylvania Avenue.

"Good morning, Mr. Caffrey," came the cheery voice on the line.

"Good morning to you, too," he said. His cheeriness was as phony as the woman on the phone. "I'd like to order breakfast."

He ordered more than a man maintaining his body size and weight should eat. But, since it was on Kramer's dime, not his, he decided to order as much as a cart could carry in one trip. Waffles with hand whipped cream and fresh berries, a fat, fluffy three cheese omelet, thick slabs of Virginia ham and applewood smoked bacon on the side, and coffee. Lots of coffee.

Neal felt like a king, compared to the last few weeks spent behind bars, but he knew better than to think this would last forever. At some point, Kramer was going to begin making demands, ordering him about, even putting his life in deep danger. He raised his china coffee cup in a form of salute to his old life and took a sip. It was hot, strong and not at all bitter.

He wondered what Peter might be doing. Realized he was probably throwing down a quick hot dog from a vendor cart on street, or heading back to the field office to file a report or two. Before true sadness had a chance to set in, there was a knock at Neal's door.

"Glad to see you up and about," said Kramer with mock joviality as Neal opened the door. He did not wait to be invited in, but strode in looking around the room. Years of F.B.I. training, no doubt, Neal thought.

"I hope the room is to your liking. I got an upgrade."

"It's very nice," said Neal soberly. "Thank you. I was just having a bite to eat. You want…?"

Kramer waved. "No. You go ahead. Finish up. I just wanted to check on you and see how the new golden boy of D.C. Art Crimes was doing."

Neal returned to his seat and refreshed his coffee cup.

"If you mean," Neal said, "have I attempted to contact Agent Burke, the answer's no."

Kramer chuckled and said, "You probably already know your phone's bugged."

Now it was Neal's turn to chuckle.

"I wouldn't have expected less. So what's my next move?"

"Wardrobe. Can't have you showing up Monday morning in the same suit you were surrendered in. A tailor from the local men's shop will be up around three to fit you for a couple of suits, get you some shirts, others essentials. Some of those ties you like so much. Try not to pick to most expensive items."

"I'll do my best."

"Neal…I know you're going to try and work the system to your advantage. Make me believe you're working for me while all the time you're working for yourself, looking for loop holes, ways to double–cross me…"

"You want Neal Caffrey? That's what you get. Love me, love my habits…"

"Just be assured that every action has an equal and opposite reaction."

"What is this, fun with physics?"

"No, not fun. No fun for you."

"Look, Kramer," Neal said, standing, shoving his hands into this robe pockets. "I get it, okay? I get it that your investment in me is based solely on what I can do for you. I get it…one false move and I'm in Super Max, till death I do part. So you can stop your bullying. I'm here. I'm ready to do the job you need me to do. No matter what it is."

To this, Kramer said nothing. He merely smiled a wry smile, turned his back on Neal and headed for the door.

"Why don't get out for a while. Get some air, soak up a bit of D.C. sunshine. Humidity's low today. The sky looks glorious."

"I'll take that under advisement."

"You do that."

Kramer reached into a pocket and pulled out a small white envelope, and tossed it on the table where sat the remnants of Neal's breakfast.

"A little walking around money. Don't spend it all in one place. See you Monday."

Kramer left. Neal picked up the envelope and peeked inside to find ten crisp twenty dollar bills.

~WC~

Neal had no trouble picking out a handsome wardrobe for himself. As soon as he could he donned a pair of dark slacks, a peach linen shirt and brown oxfords and took himself for a long walk. He knew from the moment he stepped out of the Willard that he was being followed by two men in off-the-rack suits. He had to give it to them; they were good, subtle, but not good enough that Neal couldn't spot them. So he gave the agents plenty to do.

He hopped on the Orange Line Metro and got off at Foggy Bottom, then hoofed it the rest of the way historic, trendy Georgetown. He stopped at a coffee shop for a latte to sip as he continued his travels, and led the agents on a slow and merry chase along M street and Wisconsin Avenue. He further frustrated his followers by hopping into a Capital cab for the ride back to the Willard.

Once inside Neal smiled at the rear view reflection of the cab driver, an older black gentleman with a bushy grey mustache and eyes that sought honesty and complicity.

"Sir," said Neal, "I'll give you an extra twenty if you let me borrow your cell phone."

The Driver smiled.

"Sorry, friend."

"Forty."

The driver was not yet moved.

"Please."

A beat later and the driver tossed his old style flip phone over the seat. Neal caught it deftly and quickly dialed – from memory - the F.B.I. field office in New York.

"This is Burke."

"Peter!"

"Neal?"

"Hey, I only have a moment. This isn't my phone. I'm staying in a suite at the Willard InterContinental on Pennsylvania Avenue…"

"I know where it is," said Peter. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Better now that I'm out of…"

He saw the driver's eyes staring at him through the rear view mirror and realized he should not to be quite so generous with information.

"…out of my former residence," Neal said. "What's our next move?"

"My guess," Peter said, "Kramer will move you around a few times. Give you a lot of rope to see how you react and respond. He'll want to know if you can be trusted."

"That's exactly what he's doing, Peter."

"Listen…Mozzie's taking an Amtrak train to Union Station. He should be there in a couple hours. I'll tell him you're at the Willard. We'll have to use him as our go-between. I can't leave New York. I think I'm under surveillance…"

"Join the club," Neal said. "I've had two agents on my six ever since I left the hotel."

"If I make a move to get to D.C., it's bound to get to Kramer. It's safer for you if I stay right here for now."

"Agreed," said Neal. "Monday's my first official day in Art Crimes. If anything significant happens, I'll find a way to get word to you."

"No! You wait for Mozzie, Neal. He'll find you. Anything you want to get to me, you get to him first. No playing hero. You got that?"

"Yeah, I got it, Peter. No playing hero."

"You be careful, Neal. I mean it."

"You too, Peter. Say hello to Elizabeth and Satchmo. Tell them, I hope to see them again soon."

Neal flipped the phone closed and delivered it back into the hands of its owner, along with three folded twenties.

"Name's Reginald," the cab driver offered. "Reginald Atwater. Cab number 602. You need a cab, tell the hotel concierge to ask for me."

"Thanks."

"Seriously.

Neal nodded.

"Good guys or bad guys?"

"Excuse me?" asked Neal.

"I couldn't help but overhear your part of the conversation. Who are you working for? Good guys or bad guys?"

Neal smiled. How was he supposed to answer the driver's question?

"I'm an ex-bad guy, pretending to still be a bad guy, secretly working for a good guy, trying to stop a good guy gone bad."

Reginald nodded. "Sounds deliciously complicated. I can help you."

"I don't think so…"

"I'm a licensed private investigator. Former Metropolitan Police Department. Took a bullet, retired early. Started my own Agency in '97."

Reginald held up a business card, which Neal took and instantly read.

"Check out my website," Reginald told him proudly and smiled.

"So what's with the cab?"

"Great way to meet people with problems. Met you, didn't I?"

"You've got a point. I just might be able to throw some investigative work your way, Mr. Atwater."

"Reginald, please."

"I'm Neal."

"Pleasure to meet you, Neal. You might want give me that card back," said Reginald. "Wouldn't want anyone to find it on you. They might become wise to your subterfuge."

Neal quickly slipped the card back over the seat.

"Just call Capital Cab and ask for number 602. If it's an emergency, tell the dispatch you need 602 pronto. Pronto's the code word. I hear that, I drop everything. If you need hardware…"

"Hardware?"

"Fire power."

"Hopefully it won't come to that."

"You can hope," Reginald stated flatly, "or you can anticipate. _If_ you need me to show up, guns blazing, tell dispatch to tell me to say hello to Jimmy and Wanda."

"Who are Jimmy and Wanda?"

"My Sig and my Beretta."

Reginald winked conspiratorially at Neal through the rear view mirror.

Neal could not help but smile. Mozzie was on the way. And now he had this cab driving warrior P.I. on his side. Suddenly, Caffrey was beginning to believe he just might win this battle.

End Chapter 4

_A short, somewhat upbeat chapter. Hope you enjoyed. If it's on your hearts, please respond with a review or comments. And to any D.C. peeps out there – what happened to the Watergate hotel/apartments? I left DC 15 years ago and lost track. If you know, send me a private message via ._


	5. Chapter 5

Free Me If You Can

Chapter Five

By

Lacadiva

Rating: PG-13/R for violence. Disclaimer: All rights belong to Jeff Eastin and the awesome White Collar gang. Hurry, July 14th!

_Summary: Post-Judgment Day – a different take. Peter doesn't signal Neal, and Neal is arrested and faces life – or death – in prison. What kind of a dangerous game is Kramer playing? And if Neal plays along, will Peter be able to free him from his deal with the devil before Kramer gets Neal killed?_

_Note: I'm taking a few liberties just for the sake of storytelling. So if there are glaring inaccuracies, please forgive and indulge me. It's all for fun anyway, right?_

J. EDGAR HOOVER BUILDING

WASHINGTON, D.C.

"Good morning, Mr. Caffrey. We've been expecting you."

The strawberry blonde who greeted Neal barely met the Bureau's height and weight requirement. She intercepted him at the entrance of D.C. Art Crimes as if it were her one and only responsibility. Her smile was sweet, untainted by the cynicism born of years of dogged, thankless work he had come to associate with so many agents. He returned her greeting with a patented Neal Caffrey smile, though it was forced. In truth, he hated being in Kramer-ville.

"Follow me," she said, leading him through the busy, wide open office area filled with suit-wearing agents. It was twice the size of the New York office, more traditional than modern in its style and furnishings, and with far more Feds buzzing about, answering phones, barking orders, handling cases. More than a few eyes turned his way, their wary expressions not hiding the fact that they knew exactly who he was and why he was there.

Neal and the young agent stopped at a small office in a corner, and he felt a blast of cool air tickle the beads of sweat that had collected along his forehead.

"Here we are, Mr. Caffrey."

"You have me at an advantage…Agent…?"

"Spears. Denise."

"You're awfully young to be an agent."

"I'm almost 25," she said, color rising in her cheeks as she smiled even wider. "Agents can start as young as 23 or as old as 37."

"When did 37 get to be old? So, you're a newly minted agent, I take it."

"I just started this morning."

"And I'm your first assignment. I feel honored. I'm sure it's been said, but, welcome to the Bureau."

"You too." She giggled, and dipped her head almost coquettishly, but caught herself as if reminded by some inner voice that she was an F.B.I. Agent – leave all girlish things behind.

Neal stepped over the threshold into office, which was bright and sparsely appointed with an old style cherry wood desk with a computer and flat screen, a black ergonomic swivel chair, and a comfy looking visitors' chair. There was a vertical standing landline phone and a Blackberry on the desk (both undoubtedly bugged), plus a stack of files reminiscent of something Peter would have handed him at the very start of the week to comb through. Neal was pretty confident he would find nary a mortgage file in the stack.

He looked out of one of the tinted vertical windows. Not much of a view, but he could see Pennsylvania Avenue below, and spotted a Starbucks and a popular haberdashery across the street. Ah, civilization.

"May I get you a coffee?" Agent Spears asked, as if she'd just read his mind.

"No, thanks," said Neal. "Maybe later. When will Agent Kramer be here?"

"He phoned earlier to say he was stuck in traffic. Rock Creek Parkway is always a little intense at rush hour. He said you were to make yourself comfortable until he arrived."

"Great," said Neal, and sat in the visitor's chair. "I'll just wait for him here. It's okay if I stay in his office, isn't it? I promise not to touch anything."

Agent Spears tilted her head to the right slighting, indicating confusion.

"This…isn't Agent Kramer's office, Mr. Caffrey. This is yours."

"My office?" Neal said, completely taken aback. "I get an office?"

While it was not the largest office on the floor, no doubt, the very fact that he'd been given an office at all was a surprise. A step up from his previous desk by the entrance in New York. And an obvious ploy by Kramer, who was blatantly courting Neal's good will and cooperation.

He rose and moved to the desk and sat before it, trying it for size.

Agent Spears smiled again and left.

"My office," he repeated, this time leaning back in the comfortable chair and taking it all in.

He reached for the files and flipped through the top few. Nope…no mention of mortgage fraud. There was, however, a case regarding an American classic painting stolen from an internationally renowned portrait gallery; stolen artwork from a prominent Capitol Hill residence; a possibly forged Etruscan artifact belonging to the Embassy of…

"Anything look promising?"

Neal looked up to find Agent Kramer standing at the door.

"Just trying to get a leg up on the day."

"I admire your show of dedication. How do you like you're your new digs?"

"Not bad," said Neal, swaying left to right in his chair. "I wasn't expecting my own space. Figured you'd want to keep a closer eye on me."

"Oh, we will, I assure you. This office is just a start. You prove your worth around here and we'll see about getting you an upgrade. By the way, I have a little something for you."

Kramer reached into his inside jacket pocket. What he produced made Neal blanch and hold his breath.

"No…no way…you said…"

"I know, Caffrey," Kramer said as he proffered Neal the familiar black tracking anklet. "Wasn't my call. The Bureau refused to play ball unless you were being kept on a tighter leash. A small price to pay for what we hope to accomplish…as a team."

Neal fought the urge to protest, knowing that the only way to complete this undercover gig was go along with the new kink in the plan. He reached half-heartedly for the much hated thing, the hard plastic mechanism feeling unfortunately too familiar in his hand.

"So what's my radius?"

"Two miles, just like before. I had to fight for that."

"I appreciate it," Neal lied as he bent over to attach the tracker to his ankle. It felt familiar, but knowing that Kramer held the leash, and not Peter, made him feel more imprisoned than ever. No matter where he went, Kramer would know, Kramer would find him.

"Of course," the Agent said as he sat down in the chair before Neal's desk, "there will be many opportunities, situations where we can increase your radius, or simply go without the anklet. All we have to do is prove to the bureau that you're doing an exemplary job, and we may be able to make that hateful thing disappear completely. It's up to you."

"When do we start?"

"Right now. Let's go meet the team."

~WC~

Neal walked as confidently as he could into the conference room with Kramer and instantly began to take account of the six agents seated around the oval table. All eyed him suspiciously (all but young Agent Spears, who smiled, openly blushed and looked away when Neal's big blues found her). It was as if they expect Neal to bolt at any moment, and they were prepared to shoot to kill to stop him.

"Neal Caffrey," Kramer announced, "this is my team. Team, meet Neal Caffrey, bond forger, art thief, con man extraordinaire. Don't blink when he's around, don't leave valuables lying about, and please don't believe everything he says without confirmation from me."

Kramer asked each member of the team to introduce themselves:

"I'm Agent Gains," said the stocky African American who instantly made Caffrey miss his fragile friendship with Clinton Jones back in New York. "Security expert and consultant, Interpol liaison."

"Agent Olivette," said a thin woman in a blonde bob and a pen-striped suit. Her arms were crossed tightly at her chest. Neal took note of her rigid physicality and decided a smile might not prove endearing. "Art historian, authenticator, fraud investigations."

"Agent Heely" spoke an older man, a tall, straight arrow with a slightly pasty complexion in an inexpensive men's warehouse bought suit. His simple gold band wedding ring was making his finger puffy and swollen. "Lead Investigator."

"Agent Morganstern, tactical expert," said a man who looked like a former Marine, who could not envision having any kind of life but the military.

"You've already met our Agent Spears," Kramer said. "Graduated top of her class at Quantico, and she brings a fresh eye to what we're trying to achieve here in art crimes. Any questions, Caffrey?"

"No. I'm just ready to get started."

~WC~

Neal spend the bulk of his first day diligently combing through several of the open case files, familiarizing himself with the details of the many crimes, the preliminary results of all the investigations, and making notes. The notes were for the sake of appearance, show; Neal had a true knack for retaining information and for him notes were unnecessary. He was just creating a trail for Kramer to follow, to convince the Agent that he was doing the job. By the end of the day, he found himself pinching the bridge of his nose to relieve the pressure building into a headache, and rubbing his eyes until the whites had turned an irritated pink. A typical day was to end for him at five thirty; he had already put in forty-two minutes of unpaid overtime. He leaned far back in his ergonomic chair to stretch his back muscles and stretch out his arms, when Kramer, in rolled up shirtsleeves, stepped into his office.

"So, how was your first day, Caffrey?"

"Edifying," Neal said, pointing to the stacks of files. "I separated out a few files I might have some helpful information about."

"But…?"

"But…" Neal moved forward, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "…when do we get to the real reason I'm here?"

Kramer smiled. "Now. Get your jacket and come with me."

~WC~

The bar was called P. Jay's. Dark oak tables and chairs, shadowed booths, red and white checkerboard table cloths. The waitresses all wore white shirts and black ties with black skirts, and pinned their hair up in corporately approved up-do's. The Hostess who approached Neal and Kramer as they entered greeted them as if she had been expecting them.

"They're ready for you in the back, sir," she said to Kramer, and waved a hand toward the back of the pub. Neal followed, observing the few patrons who sat at the bar. All seemed far more interested in their beers and rail drinks than the two of them.

Kramer stopped just as they reached the door to the banquet room.

"Before we go in, Neal, you should know that from here, there's no turning back."

Neal willingly eased past Kramer, opening the door and holding it for Kramer.

"You met the team," said the Agent. "Now, meet the crew."

Three men sat at a round banquet table. All looked like Feds on a bender: jackets off, ties loosened, shirt sleeves rolled up. There was a high stakes poker game in session with piles of crumpled cash upon the table, and the entire room was thick with cigar smoke mingling with the smell of bourbon, sweat and aftershave. All turned to look at Neal, all giving him harsh, hostile, and suspicious looks.

Neal didn't recognize any of them, but he knew the types. Career men, just like Kramer. Fed up Feds with flexible loyalties and exceptions for every rule.

"This is him?" asked the most volatile looking of the trio. He wore a Special Forces tattoo on his thick pale forearm, peeking from under his shirt sleeve, and had bushy, unruly red hair that no amount of product could successfully manage. "He doesn't look like much."

The other men laughed.

"I don't know," said a second man, this one older, short, thin, but tough looking. "I wouldn't want to introduce him to my daughter. I might have to kill him."

"Gentlemen," Kramer said, "I'd like you to meet Neal Caffrey. You know him by his reputation."

"I know him by his jacket," said Special Forces guy. "Anything of mine turns up missing, I take a finger."

The men laughed again.

"I'll make sure to keep my hands to myself," said Neal, hoping to ease some of the tension in the room.

"Yeah, you do that," said Special Forces guy angrily, even as he shuffled the cards.

"Easy, Tolliver," said Kramer. "We're all on the same side here."

Tolliver eased back into his seat, but never took his eyes off Neal.

"Tolliver is our muscle," said Kramer quite proudly, then pointed to the shorter gentleman. "Radamaker is our demolitions expert. And the quiet one over there, that's Perkins."

Perkins, sporting a blond/gray crew cut, seemed quite serene and in control, in contrast to the other two. Unfortunately, this made Neal all the more nervous.

"Logistics," said Perkins. No other words were necessary.

"Pleased to meet you all," said Neal, keeping a congenial tone. "So, what's the plan?"

Kramer ushered Neal to a seat at the table. "The plan, young Mr. Caffrey, is poker. Are you in?"

~WC~

They dealt cards, played, won, lost, smoked, and drank for two hours non-stop, until Tolliver angrily threw his losing hand across the table and stood to stretch and seek the john. Neal stretched his muscles, and felt the warm and gentle buzz from the exceptionally good bourbon coursing through him. His own tie loosened, his own sleeves rolled up, he reached out to scrape all his winnings toward him, trying not to smile too much. He loved to win, but didn't want to rub it into the faces of these very dangerous men. He protested when Radamaker demanded the opportunity to win back some of his money, then relented, intending to deliberately throw his hand to get on the demolition expert's good side.

When the game had finally burned itself out, the bourbon was almost gone, and the cigars smoked to the nub, Kramer made his move.

"Gentlemen, having Mr. Caffrey join us is going to be a game changer. We've managed a few small victories in the last few months. Now it's time to move up, into the big leagues. He is, after all, the one responsible for stealing that Renoir I've been chasing for the last few years."

Neal fought not to smile again, not wanting to appear too cocky or proud of his achievement.

"Before we reveal our plan, Caffrey, we're going send you on a dry run. Give us a chance to see what you can do. Give you a chance to prove yourself to us. Failure is not an option here. If you succeed, you get to keep the spoils. You fail, and you die. No second chances."

Neal fought to keep his breathing even, his face a mask of nonchalance.

"What's the job?"

"Replace a masterpiece with one of your signature forgeries. It has to be good. So good, even I wouldn't know the difference."

"Where is it?"

"In evidence, F.B.I. Headquarters."

"You want me to…"

"…steal from us. Yes. That bother you?"

"On the contrary, it inspires me."

"Good. How are you with Etruscan vases?"

~WC~

Kramer was characteristically cryptic, sharing the least bit of information and leaving much for Neal to figure out for himself. He had auditioned on many other occasions, but never had so much been on the line. Never had the penalty been a bullet in the head for failure.

When the meeting with the crew had come to an end, Neal reached for his jacket, then dug into the pocket to find his Blackberry.

"Who are you calling?" Kramer inquired as he slipped back into his own suit jacket. His cheeks were rosy and eyes a bit glassy from alcohol.

"Taxi," Neal said. "Too tipsy to walk. You're welcome to share my cab."

"You go ahead. Perkins will drop me off. Good first day, Neal. I look forward to the outcome of our little challenge."

Neal held up a finger to indicate to Kramer that his call had come through…

"Yes, I need a cab…"

…then rested the phone against his shoulder so the caller would not hear his end of the conversation. To Kramer, Neal said, "I won't disappoint you."

"Of course you won't," said Kramer, and left with Perkins, leaving a hostile looking Tolliver with alone with Neal.

Neal gave the address of the bar, then quietly added, "See if cab number 602 is available, would you?" before disengaging the call.

Tolliver tossed his suit jacket over his shoulder and started toward Neal.

"You don't have to walk me out," Neal said, instantly regretting it when he noticed Tolliver's face darkening with anger. The agent slammed into Neal, knocking over two chairs, pushing him hard against a brick wall.

"You slick pretty boy types tick me off," he snarled.

"Yeah, I got that." Neal pushed back against Tolliver, but the Agent's bulky weight and muscle made it feel like pushing against stone.

"Let me give you a piece of advice. You better fly low under my radar, Caffrey. One blip and I'll put you down. Just 'cause Kramer's stupid enough to trust you, don't mean I do."

Neal turned his head to the side to avoid the rancid smell of undigested meat, bad molars and stale alcohol from his hot breath. Despite the unpleasantness of the moment, this was good, useful information. Dissention in the ranks! Obviously Tolliver didn't think too highly of Kramer's command decisions. Perhaps this was something he could exploit later.

"Kramer thought you guys needed an ace," Neal said as calmly as he could. "I'm it."

"Ace, huh? You're just one more to split the cash with. All I know is you'd better be worth the hype, con. Ace, huh?" he spat and sneered. Then Tolliver reared back and punched Neal hard in the gut.

"How's that shank wound doing, _Ace_?"

Caffrey doubled over, the air rushing out of his body, the pain from the wound resurfacing and arcing through his midsection angrily to remind him that he had not yet completely healed. He waited until Tolliver had cleared the room before straightening up and attempting to walk. Tolliver had made his point, quite clearly.

Once outside, Neal noticed that the legendary D.C. humidity had returned, and the night air felt as if it were clinging to his skin. He fought to keep his head clear and his legs moving, but his still wounded side was causing him major discomfort. He was much relieved when Capital Cab #602 pulled up.

He slipped quickly into the back and leaned to the side as if to lie down upon the seat.

"Couple too many?" Atwater said.

"Not exactly," said Neal, his voice slightly strained. "I accidently ran into someone's fist with my gut."

"I hope you gave him what-for."

"His day's coming…" Neal took a moment to calm his breath.

"Need to borrow my phone?"

"No," said Neal. "Someone may be watching..."

"You got good instincts, kid." Atwater was looking out of the rear view mirror, and noticed a car making a turn as he did, following closely. "Those instincts will keep you alive."

Moments later, Atwater pulled up to the entrance of the Willard while Neal fumbled in a pocket for cash to pay him.

"Keep it. You'll need it if you're putting me on retainer, Caffrey."

Neal regarded him warily. He never gave Atwater his last name.

"Relax. I'm not the enemy. I'm a P.I. with a surveillance camera in my cab and little time on my hands. I ran a background check on you. Ran your picture through the facial recognition database. You've had a rather interesting life for such a young man, Neal George Caffrey."

Neal smiled.

"I also redialed the number you called. Had a brief chat with your friend, Peter Burke. He wasn't tickled to hear from me at first, but I think he's encouraged that I'm on board. He's worried about you. Nice to have people care about you."

"Since you're on retainer, can I ask you to run a background check on a couple of agents for me?"

"Give me their names."

"Tolliver, Radamaker, Perkins."

"Got it. You look a little pale. How about I run you by George Washington University Hospital, let somebody in emergency check you out?"

"I'm okay," Neal said and opened the car door. "I'll live.

~WC~

He knew the moment he stepped inside the hotel lobby that someone was following him, on foot. Neal forgot all about the pain still lingering in his gut as instinct kicked in. He had no weapon with which to fight, so he decided it best to keep to the public areas. He saw a darkened lounge and made his way to a booth in the back.

The man tailing him stepped to the booth.

"Mozzie."

Neal smiled, ear to ear, shook his head, and reached to give his dear friend hearty a hug.

"I can't even tell you how good it is to see you. Did anyone see you come in?

"Neal, you wound me."

"Sorry. Had to ask. Thank you for coming."

"The suit sends his regards," Mozzie said as he slid into the both opposite Neal. "And Mrs. Suit sent gluten free brownies. I think there's one left…" He reached inside his shoulder bag in search of the errant sweet.

"One?"

"It was a four hour train ride."

A Waitor came to their table, bringing chilled goblets of water. Neal order two red wines and sat back to relieve the pressure on his side.

"Is that blood?" Mozzie asked.

Neal looked down at his white shirt and saw two tiny spots of red fluid forming.

"I liked this shirt…" he said, shaking his head. "I'm okay. Might have popped a stitch."

"I promised the suit," said Mozzie, "I'd contact him with an update as soon as I had a chance. So, update me."

"Kramer's sending me on a dry run."

"Understandable. He'll want to see how you respond under pressure."

"He wants me to steal an Etruscan vase and replace it with a flawless fake."

"Steal the Etruscan…so he can 'en-trust' you…sounds par for the course."

"It's in evidence at F.B.I. Headquarters."

"A mere wrinkle in the fabric of his scheme. You've conquered worse."

"If I don't deliver on time, he's having me killed."

"That could be a problem."

END CHAPTER FIVE

_Thanks so much for reading, and a special thank you to everyone who so kindly put me on your favorites list. Please, be kind and review if it's on your heart, if this story has pleased you in any way. Only a week until the season 4 premiere! Can't wait!_


	6. Chapter 6

Free Me If You Can

Chapter 6

By

Lacadiva

Rating: PG-13/R for violence. Disclaimer: All rights belong to Jeff Eastin and the awesome White Collar gang.

_Summary: Post-Judgment Day – a different take. Peter doesn't signal Neal, and Neal is arrested and faces life – or death – in prison. What kind of a dangerous game is Kramer playing? And if Neal plays along, will Peter be able to free him from his deal with the devil before Kramer gets Neal killed?_

_Note: I'm taking a few liberties just for the sake of storytelling. So if there are glaring inaccuracies, please forgive and indulge me. It's all for fun anyway, right?_

~WC~

_THE ETRUSCAN_

Neal had spent the better part of his second morning in D.C. Art Crimes entrenched in research, up to his ears in photos, ancient history books, reading every article and page of file information he could get his hands on. He had combed every internet site available regarding the history, theft and recovery of the Etruscan artifact he was expected to replace with a forgery. And he was not surprised that Kramer had left him alone, conveniently floating him legitimate files that did not required any immediate action, just general review. Apparently, Kramer wanted Caffrey free and unimpeded to deal exclusively with the Etruscan.

Neal needed to get a hold of the vessel, get a close look at it. While he could certainly come up with a relatively decent replica just by going by the photos alone, he needed to know so much more about it in intimate detail: the texture and feel, the weight, the smell...the tiny details of coloration, age, damage, shape and other irregularities most might simply overlook or not be smart enough to look for. And he had to do it soon. A very prestigious Italian museum holding claim to the vessel was sending a delegation of experts to verify its authenticity. They were due to arrive in two days. If the experts gave the green light, they will be taking the Etruscan back home with them and Neal's chance to prove himself to Kramer and his crew would be lost.

Not to mention Neal would be a dead man.

He had to get his hands on that Etruscan.

"How's it going, Caffrey?"

Speak of the devil, Neal thought, and he will appear. He looked up and forced a smile at Kramer, standing at his door.

"It's going."

"Making progress?"

"Some. I just need to figure out how I can…"

"No, don't tell me," he said in a hushed tone. "Plausible denial. The less I know, the better."

"Right," said Neal, wishing he could throw the proverbial book at the crooked Agent now. He'd just have to wait and see. Set the perfect trap. Bide his time.

Neal's Blackberry began to vibrate. He reached for it and checked the incoming message.

Kramer asked, "Fan mail from some flounder?"

Neal chuckled as he quickly read the text.

"Seriously, Neal…who is it?" Kramer was suddenly quite serious.

"It's not Agent Burke, if that's your concern. Just a restaurant down the street," he said. "I sent a text asking about the day's special." He held up the Blackberry so Kramer could see the information on the screen and be convinced that he wasn't receiving some secret coded message.

He was, however, receiving a coded message…

"The catch of the day is salmon," said Neal. "Care to join me?"

"I'm not a big fan of seafood. Knock yourself out."

"You think there's any way I can actually go out to eat without being followed and watched like an enemy of the state?"

"Someone's following you?" Kramer asked facetiously.

"Right," Neal said, understanding that the surveillance was going to continue.

"Enjoy your lunch," said Kramer. "But remember, time's running out. Tick-Tock..." Kramer smiled slyly as he walked away.

Tick-Tock, Neal thought. Tick-Tock. The Ke$ha song was suddenly, almost annoyingly, resounding in his head.

"Sunnovagun just song-bombed me," Neal said under his breath as he grab his hat and jacket and left the office.

~WC~

_THE STEAK AND ALE HOUSE_

"It's not exactly a vase," Neal explained to Mozzie, who stood next to his table dressed formally and quite uncomfortably as a waiter – white shirt, black slacks, black apron. The restaurant was so vast, so dark and so very busy that no one even noticed that Mozzie wasn't really an employee there. Not unless they needed steak sauce, another cold beer or extra napkins. Mozzie appeased requestors with a big, obsequious grin and a curt nod but remained at Neal's table, pretending to take his complicated order.

"It's actually a krater," Neal continued. He pretended to search the oversized menu for the perfect dish.

"A crater? Like a big hole in the ground, left by government issued space debris dropped randomly from the sky on the heads of innocent, unsuspecting citizens?" the very offended Mozzie decried.

"No, a krater, with a K, fashioned around 600 BC. It's a decorative terracotta vessel specifically used for diluting wine with water."

"Horror of horrors. Speaking of wine…I actually had the chance to surreptitiously sample a nice Shiraz before you arrived…I could get you a bottle…"

Before Mozzie could finish, another similarly dressed Server whisked by. Mozzie hoped to deflect her attention by adapting the helpful patois of a legitimate employee:

"May I also suggest the pan seared wild salmon with roasted fennel? It's _tres manifique_!"

Neal's eyes rolled upon hearing Mozzie once again butcher the language of France.

As soon as the Server was out of earshot, Mozzie quickly shifted back to his normal, faux-irritated attitude and the topic at hand.

"So then, the question becomes, how do you propose to get into FBI Evidence Lockup and steal the Kramer's krater?"

"I'm working on something."

"Feel free to share," he said, then more loudly as a Hostess guided a pair of pinstriped stock broker types to a booth across from Neal, "And all our specials are made fresh daily!"

"I can't get into the Evidence Lockup without a written request, submitted in triplicate and electronically, and approved by department heads. And, I'd have to be one of the investigators on the case…"

"Ergo, no legitimate reason to request permission to finagle the krater," Mozzie finished for him. "So if Caffrey can't get to the krater, why not get someone else to get it to you?"

"That's the plan…I'm working on it…"

"Good luck. And the seven-layer Death by Chocolate cake is killer."

"No one's earshot Mozzie, you can drop the waiter routine."

"No, seriously! Their cake is that good!"

"I'll need you to get a few things for me."

Neal slipped Mozzie a square yellow Post-It note on which he'd scripted a detailed list of art supplies he required to get started. Mozzie quickly perused the note, committed the items to memory, and then placed it just above the burning votive candle to set it afire. Once the page had been reduced to ash, he held out his hand, palm up.

"What?" asked Neal.

"No tip? What do you expect me to buy all your forging supplies with?"

"You still holding on to my half of the treasure?"

Mozzie sighed. "Fine. I'll text you a Ruth's Chris Steak House menu when I've got everything."

"Thanks, Moz. What about a place to work tonight?"

"Good as ours."

"Great. One more thing, Moz. I'll take one of those killer Death by Chocolate cakes to go."

~WC~

Neal stepped into Agent Olivette's area, withholding his smile, and knocked on the metal edge of her cubicle when the agent did not look up.

"What?" she said, not bothering to hide her irritation, her eyes never leaving the stack of paperwork before her.

"Agent Kramer wanted me to let you know that Professor Lorenzo D'Amichi and the Delegation should be arriving before three on Friday to get a look at that Etruscan thing."

"That…_Etruscan thing_?" Olivette looked up at Neal as if she'd smelled something foul in her general vicinity. "I thought you had a reputation for appreciating art._"_

"Right…the Etruscan krater," said Neal. "I hear they're taking it back to Italy with them. That is, if it's the real deal."

"Excuse me?"

The bait was extended. And there was the first tiny nibble. Neal tried not to let his enthusiasm show.

"If it's real. I guess D'Amichi gets the final word on whether it's real or not. But that's right…you were the authenticator on the case. According to your report, it's probably real. Right?"

"I can assure you, Mr. McCaffrey, it is real."

"It's Caffrey, just Caffrey. I'm not trying to offend. I just remember what happened when Kramer retrieved that Degas and it turn out to be the best forgery he'd ever seen. Sure hate for this to be like that Degas. Kramer was pretty upset."

Neal turned, hands shoved in his pockets and took a step as if to walk away.

"Wait…"

Neal stopped. Another nibble…

"What Degas? What forgery? What do you know?"

"Actually, Agent Kramer and my former partner in New York went to a lot of trouble to track down that Degas from this arms dealer. On close inspection it appeared to be the real McCoy. Dead on signature. But a few tell tale immature cracks…you know, the kind of thing that escapes even the most trained eye.… Well, you get the picture…. Kramer's not one to suffer alone. Pretty sure he won't be the easiest to deal with if that Etruscan turns out to be a fake. Which it won't, of course. Right?"

He could have sworn he saw the woman's lower lip quiver, just a touch. Doubt was so easy to read.

"But don't listen to me," Neal said, feigning humility. "I'm not one to tell anybody how to do their job. Just a C.I. with good intentions and maybe a little time too much on my hands. I know I should mind my own business."

He waited to see if his words hit home yet. Not quite. Neal had one last card to play, so he played it.

"You know, the Etruscans believed that man's destiny was completely determined by the unpredictable whim and capricious nature of many deities. If some big shot museum stood a chance of making me look bad, I'd just make doubly sure I dotted all my i's and crossed all my t's. But that just overly-cautious me. I'm sure you know exactly what you're doing. Have a good one, Agent Olivette."

Neal returned to his office, sat at his desk, and waited.

Within thirty minutes, a clerk from Evidence Lockup was delivering the heavy plastic covered Etruscan to Agent's Olivette's work station. Neal watched from the water cooler as Olivette gave the piece a quick through the wrapping. She signed for it and gave orders to have it moved to a small lab down the hall where she would run it through an additional battery of tests behind secured locked doors.

Neal smiled. The first hurdle had been cleared. The game was afoot.

~WC~

"Excuse me…"

Mozzie stepped over the demolished threshold of the former pizzeria-soon-to-be-designer cupcake shop. He maneuvered past piles of old wood, crumbling concrete, exposed wires and electrical fixtures hanging from the ceiling and cleared his throat loudly. Four Construction Workers, all in powdery-plaster and paint splattered jeans and tee shirts, all wearing bandanas covering their mouths and noses, stopped smashing through a wall with heavy mallets and turned to the strange man in John Lennon glasses and a Washington Gas Light Company jumpsuit and hard hat.

Mozzie checked his clip board quickly and took a retractable pen from one of his many pockets.

"Is this fourteen-oh-nine-and-a-three-quarters K Street?"

The Construction Workers looked at each other questioningly.

"It's 1411," said the Worker with the green bandana.

"Not according to my records…."

Pages cascaded to the cluttered floor from Mozzie's clipboard as he rifled through print outs and floor plans. The Construction Workers chuckled at his clumsiness and moved to return to their mallet swinging.

"This is important!" Mozzie practically shouted. "We're talking life or death! You guys have no idea what's going on here, do you?"

They didn't, and looked at each other questioningly.

"I have an evacuation notice here. Apparently there's been a report of a massive natural gas leak!"

Green Bandana pulled his away from his mouth so he could sniff and speak. "What gas leak? We don't smell no gas leak."

"Of course you don't smell it! How could you? The smell is added later so that people would know it's a gas leak."

The Construction Workers continued to stare uncomprehendingly at Mozzie.

"This is natural, _organic_ gas! There is no smell!"

"Never heard of it!" said Red Bandana.

"What are you, clueless? No smell, ergo, no forewarning, only BOOM when you switch on a light, or unlock a door or…hit a wall with a mallet."

Mozzie held up the retractable pen as if to click it, but quickly stopped himself.

"Ooh….better not… With a considerable concentration, anything could set it off. I remember once, a ringing cell phone was all it took…"

The Construction Workers looked nervous. Green Bandana took out his iPhone and quickly switched it off.

"I'm going to need to speak to the proprietor of this establishment immediately!" Mozzie demanded.

"She's not here," Red Bandana said.

"Then I shall have to proceed without her."

Mozzie removed a small device that looked oddly like a photographer's light meter, held it out in front of him and waved it around the room. The Workers watched him, not sure if he was serious or insane, but not willing to take the chance to stop him.

FLASH! The bright white light was quick and blinding. And the three men jumped as if shocked.

"Don't move!" Mozzie cried. "Sweet juniper berries! I'm picking up an 8.3!"

"Eight point three?" asked Red Bandana nervously. "Is that bad?"

"Is it bad? Is it BAD? It's CRITICAL! And that's just in this room alone. Who knows what's going on underground!"

The Construction Workers looked insecurely at the chipped and broken tile floor.

"That's it," Mozzie said finally. "For your own safety, I'm going to have to ask you gentlemen to leave."

"You have to talk to the owner, man," said Yellow Bandana. "We get paid by the hour and we just got started."

"There's no time! Don't you get it? This entire room is one big powder keg! You can stick around if you want, but I refuse to be held responsible for what happens in the next fifteen seconds. That's about all the time it takes to get a safe distance away from…"

Mozzie flashed the light meter again. "Uh-oh…"

The Construction Workers dropped their mallets and headed out, more than done for the day.

"We better get a full day's pay for this," Blue Bandana said on his way out.

"Oh, don't worry! O.S.H.A. requires you be paid time and a half hazard pay."

Mozzie peeked at the still working stoves in the back and nodded. Perfect for slow-baking pottery.

Neal will be pleased.

~WC~

Olivette was wearing white gloves, white lab coat, and headband-style magnifiers, and was just about to begin her examination when she heard a knock at the lab door. She looked up, perturbed, to find Neal peering through the narrow chicken wire glass window. She was about to turn away when Neal held up a small plate with a huge slab of dark chocolate cake and a red plastic fork stuck deep into the uber-rich, sinful looking confection.

Olivette hit the buzzer on the table that disengaged the lock. Neal leaned in.

"There's cake."

"Why? What's the occasion?"

"I just wanted to thank everyone for helping make my transition to D.C. Art Crimes so smooth and easy, with a little Death by Chocolate."

Olivette stared at the decadent sweet and held out a gloved hand for the plate.

"Oh, this is mine," Neal said as he pulled up a chunk of thickly frosted cake with the fork and popped it into his mouth. He made a face that said ecstasy in the form of dark chocolate was surging through him. He even groaned a bit. Mozzie was right, the cake was killer indeed.

"There's some left in the break room," he said when he had seemingly regained his senses. "You might want to get in there before it's all gone."

Olivette quickly shrugged out of her lab cat, whipped off her headgear and gloves and moved toward the door. Neal, ever the gentleman, held it open for her.

What she didn't notice was that Neal had placed a piece of electrical tape on the door to prevent it from locking upon closing. Neal headed for his office as Olivette made her way to the kitchen as if certain that the lab door was secure. Once she was out of sight, Neal quickly backtracked to the lab and slipped inside. He sat down the cake plate and went directly to the Etruscan on the lab table.

"Well, hello," he said almost seductively to the krater. It was larger than he imagined – about the size of a well fed house cat - and certainly beautiful.

He didn't pick it up right away. Just eyed it closely, so closely that he could smell the dust on it. He touched it lightly, letting the piece 'speak' to him. Within seconds he knew color, shade, texture, shape, irregularity, damage, age, weight. He imagined ancient sunburned, calloused hands forming it, working it, transforming it from a lump of wet clay into this baked earth antiquity. They did not know – those whose hands had shaped and molded and created pieces such as these for mere practical purposes – that two and a half thousand years later one such as this would be worth so much trouble, money and attention.

He found the maker's worn signature at the bottom of the heavy vessel, which became indelibly imprinted in Neal's memory. He knew he could create a forgery that would stand up to everything, barring thermo-luminescence or spectroscopic analysis. Even now, Mozzie was lifting soil samples from a Smithsonian exhibit that would aid tremendously in the authentication process.

Instinct told him it was time to leave. He gave a last look at the Etruscan, then retrieved his cake, opened the door, removed the tape evidence, then quickly, quietly left.

~WC~

"Did you set the oven at 150?" Neal asked as he shrugged out of his suit jacket, loosened and whipped off his tie, and removed his shirt before approaching the makeshift workstation Mozzie had earlier prepared to his specifications.

"This isn't exactly my first rodeo," Mozzie answered, double –checking the oven setting just to be on the safe side. "Feel free to check behind me if you doubt."

Neal had returned to the Willard after work and remained visible, sitting in the bar, nursing a Merlot, slow-eating a Kobe beef and shaved black truffle burger smothered in smoked Gruyere, and reading the Washington Post until Kramer's surveillance man had become so deathly bored that he left. He made his way to the 1411 K Street, N.W. address per Mozzie's direction, which had been cleverly hidden in the body of a Ruth's Chris' Steakhouse menu, though it didn't need to be. They both simply enjoyed the subterfuge.

And they didn't want Kramer to know about Mozzie's involvement or invaluable assistance.

Two hours later, Neal was washing his hands over the utility sink, scraping telltale sights of clay from under his finger nails, while his Etruscan fake baked slowly in the pastry oven. He began to sing under his breath as he scrubbed:

"_Don't stop, make it pop, DJ blow my speakers up, tonight I'mma fight 'til we see the sunlight…"_

"What are you singing?" Mozzie asked, a little annoyed.

Neal smiled. "Nothing. You know, this almost feels like..."

"Like old times," Mozzie finished for him.

"Yeah," Neal said wistfully. "Speaking of time, how late is it?"

"It's after one a.m."

"Too late to call Peter…"

"We're not due to call until Friday."

"I know, but…"

"We stick to the schedule, Neal. We don't deviate. To do so puts us all in jeopardy. Peter's calls could easily be intercepted by bizarro world big brother just like yours."

"Again, Moz, I know."

"You miss the suit."

Neal turned off the faucet and shook water from his hands. He used that moment to consider the answer that would reveal the least, hurt the least.

"We had a good thing," he said with a barely perceptible shrug.

"You were a Para-Fed. Sleuthing with the enemy. How is that a good thing?"

While Mozzie opened a bottle of Cabernet, Neal slipped back into his shirt, sans tie.

"Just keep an eye on the timer. Don't want our dish to overcook."

~WC~

By nearly eight they were finished. Neal and Mozzie, both exhausted and equally needing a shave and a bath, stood back to cast their eyes upon the fake Etruscan krater and make their final judgment.

"Looks…amazing…" Mozzie finally spoke. "Appropriately ancient. Even down to the little crack along the bell…"

Neal smiled crookedly. "Yeah, not bad, if I do say so…"

"When do you make the switch this morning?"

"I'm not making the switch this morning."

"What? Then what the heck has this been all about?"

"Easy, Moz," Neal said, slipping into his suit jacket. "Kramer wanted me to make a fake that could pass inspection by a trio of Italian art experts. I'm certain that I can make it close, but…"

"So you're giving Kramer the fake?" Mozzie asked in alarm. "If he even suspects…"

"No…I want the experts to examine the real krater. I want them to authenticate it and give it their blessing. I'll make the switch before they head to JFK."

"Ah…smart move. Assuming you can pull it off under the wicked scrutiny of the feds."

"Yeah," said Neal, heading for the door to leave, "I might need a little help with that."

Neal pulled his Blackberry from his inside jacket pocket and speed-dialed a number.

"Good morning," he said cheerily. "I wonder if cab 602 might be available…"

~WC~

"So what's the story, morning glory?"

Neal smiled at Reginald's odd attempt at poetry as he slipped into the front seat of the taxi.

"I'd like to officially call upon your clandestine services."

Reginald smiled. "I was wondering when I'd hear from you again. Tell me, how close to the edge of danger and illegality will we be tiptoe-ing?"

"Pretty close," said Neal. "Pretty close. Are you in?"

"Are you kidding? It's my favorite flavor. Tell me what you need, Neal."

And Neal did.

~WC~

Patience was inculcated in Neal after early years of suffering consequences. Jumping the gun, revealing his hand too soon, or acting out of impulse had caused him to face beat downs, foot chases, or having to elude the police or some angry mark with malicious intent. Time had taught him to choose stillness. But even now, after so many years and so many experiences, he had to work especially hard to keep patient.

He'd been working - or appearing to be working – at his desk, on his cases throughout the earlier portion of the day while avoiding Kramer's threatening stares. The entire D.C. Art Crimes office was unusually abuzz with activity, the normal tension heightened in preparation for the Italian Consulate and the delegation from the museum. Neal fought to treat the day as routinely as possible, but found he was watching everyone, every move, and noticing every strange face in the main area.

When finally the delegation was ushered into Agent Kramer's office, Neal found himself wishing he had invented some way to place a listening device; deep down, he knew such a thing was dangerous. He would just have to wait and see …

What he had not anticipated was that Kramer would give him the Reese Hughes/Peter Burke finger point – and bid him meet the delegation. Kramer then invited Nel to join them as they were lead to the lab to begin the authentication process.

Neal shook the hands of the delegates and experts warmly. "_Benvenuto. Io sono al vostro servizio_," he said, his accent perfect.

Kramer's eyes widened. "Didn't know you spoke Italian, Caffrey."

"Only a few key phrases," he said with a smile. To all he said, "Shall we?" and showed them the way with a helpful wave of a hand.

"I'm watching you," Kramer warned, _sotto voce_.

~WC~

The lab was now filled with other Agents as well as the Delegation, yet it was starkly silent. D'Amichi took his time going over every millimeter of the real krater, but never allowing his facial expressions to give away what he was thinking, feeling or discovering from one moment to the next.

Neal noticed every painstaking moment of the examination, fighting not to second-guess himself or his plan. There was no Plan B; this was it.

When finally D'Amichi was ready to pronounce judgment, he prolonged the agony of his audience by taking time to first clean his half-moon glasses, unravel and pop a hard candy into his mouth, and write a few notes down on a file.

He spoke a few curt words in Italian. All eyes turned to his diminutive translator who said without expression or much inflection:

"She is real."

Kramer looked at Neal and smile.

While all in attendance shook hands and spoke in a more relaxed and friendly manner, Kramer leaned close to Neal and whispered:

"Congratulations, Caffrey. Your forgery past the muster. You get to live another day."

"It's not the forgery," Neal said.

Kramer's face began to turn red. His expression was deadly serious. Neal was certain that if there was no one else in the room but them, Kramer would surely have shot him dead in an instant.

"Relax," said Neal. "Everything's under control. The krater is as good as yours."

"It better be, Caffrey."

When the Italian Delegation had concluded their business for the day and bid their hosts goodbye, it was Neal who volunteered to join Kramer and Olivette in escorting their happy guests down the elevator and to their waiting limousine. Neal knew that until the krater was taken from the building, it was still in F.B.I. custody and therefore must be carried by an agent to the street. Neal volunteered for that duty as well, but Olivette merely smirked and took total charge of the vessel herself.

It now rested in a black leather exterior/blue velvet interior case, locked and secured from outside scrutiny. Kramer looked jumpy, irritated as the elevator descended to the lobby level. Neal feared the Agent might grab the case and run. Neal shook his head subtly. _It's going to be fine…_

The late afternoon air was hot and typically humid, and traffic as bad as could be expected. Neal's senses seemed heightened as they all stepped outside and felt the heat rush them and the cooled air from lobby linger for a merciful moment at their backs.

The limousine was parked nearby and a Driver in a dark suit stood almost at attention at the opened passenger door. Just as the Delegation turned to make their final goodbyes, there was the horrific screech of tires on asphalt and the sound of a man screaming…

All turned to see what had happened. A tall man - the spitting image of Morgan Freeman, some would say later – had just been mowed down by a car apparently.

_Apparently_.

He now lay prone on his back, not moving.

This was Neal's cue to go into action.

_Before the accident, this is what Neal knew:_

Not only was his newest friend and crew member Reginald Atwater a decorated ex-cop with a reputation for being honest to a fault and tough on crime, he had become private detective to be reckoned with. He knew a thing or two about insurance scams, and how often seemingly random individuals actually arranged their own accidents by literally throwing themselves in the trajectory of an oncoming car – all to collect hefty financial damages later. While the accident may have looked like the real deal, Atwater knew how to "bump" a car and play possum like the best Hollywood stuntmen.

Neal smiled, remembering that it was Reginald's idea, his contribution to the scam.

Neal also knew that Olivette would momentarily forget about the krater if a life was hanging in the balance. He'd read her file and easily deduced her type: A washed out pre-med student with a secondary major in art history with a restoration slant. Her primary motivation in joining the bureau was to save lives as well as art. Her pre-med background meant she more than likely knew CPR and how NOT to deal with a man on the ground who had just been hit by a car. Apparently.

True to form, Olivette dropped the case, spread her arms wide to push back the imagined on-rush of gawkers and ran to the injured man's side.

"Everybody back!" she cried. "Don't touch him! Sir…sir…can you hear me? Can you move your toes…"

Neal could almost guarantee that the Delegation would be too caught up in the American drama unfolding before them - what a great story to tell once they were back home! – to pay much attention to the black case that had now been abandoned for a few seconds. All the time he needed to make the switch…

Neal further knew that ordering two identical black leather/velvet interior cases from a local office supply store and placing one in Olivette's eye-view would give her the idea to use it. It was the perfect fit for the krater, and provided a much more professional way of transporting it than your typical wooden crate and heavy plastic. Not to mention the fact that Neal had stopped by her desk and dropped a few rhyming phrases to further implant the notion.

He couldn't wait to relate all of this to Peter.

So while all eyes were turned to the accident, agile Neal swiftly lifted the leather case, tossed it into the back of Reginald's unlocked taxi cab and grabbed the replacement which contained his brilliant fake.

Neal raced to Olivette's side, fake case in one hand, Blackberry in the other.

"I'm calling 911!" said Neal, feigning anxiousness.

"No!" Reginald cried, trying to sit up. "I'm okay…just got the wind knocked out of me."

Olivette tried to hold him down.

"Sir, you could be severely hurt! There could be internal injuries…"

"Get off me!" Atwater demanded and sat up. "I'm fine. I just want to go home."

"But sir…!"

"Let him go," Neal said, being the voice of reason. "It's his right to refuse medical attention."

To Reginald he said, "Sir, are you sure? We can have you taken to New York Presbyterian…"

"I'm fine. Take more than a stupid hybrid car to put me down!"

With that, Neal helped Reginald to his feet, helped him brush off, and all watched as Atwater moved slowly to his cab, climbed in and drove away.

With the real krater in the back.

Neal couldn't help but let a smile slide across his face.

"What's so funny?" Olivette demanded, reclaiming charge of the krater case now.

"People. People are funny."

Olivette returned to the limo, placed the case safely, almost ceremonially inside, bade goodbye to the Delegation, and returned to the federal building with a frowning Kramer right behind her.

~WC~

P. JAY'S

Kramer looked at his watch for the umpteenth time and exhaled loudly. Caffrey was only five minutes late, but he was prepared to unleash Toliver and the rest of his crew to find the conman if he failed to appear soon.

Toliver played with a butterfly knife, flipping it around irritatingly. Radamacher stared at him, as if hoping Toliver would impale himself and end the agony. Perkins was playing a relaxing game of Solitaire, successfully ignoring all of them.

Radamacher reached for one of the many bottles of Scotch on the table.

"No," Kramer said like a reprimand, "not yet. If Caffrey doesn't show, I want you all sharp and in your right minds to find him."

Radamacher uttered a curse under his breath and withdrew his hand.

And then Neal walked in.

"Gentlemen!" he said cheerily, "forgive my tardiness. It started raining, and I couldn't get a cab."

"You're cutting it close, my boy," Kramer warned. "One more minute and you were destined for a return engagement behind bars."

Neal sat the case on the table, unlocked it, but left it for Kramer to open.

He did. And gave the vessel a good long look. "How do I know this is the real McCoy and not the forgery? What guarantee do I have that you're not trying to dupe me?"

"You promised to kill me," said Neal. "You could always hire another authenticator. Of course, that might raise a few red flags, especially if your authenticator can't keep his mouth shut. Your only recourse is to trust me."

"Trust you?" Kramer said with a smirk. "You're a liar and a cheat, and you'll lie and cheat every time."

"On the contrary, I value honesty as much as the next man."

"Honor among thieves? Doesn't exist. So, I have a contingency plan. An authenticator on the premises, waiting to take a look at and verify one way or the other. Mr. Radamacher, have our guest join us when he's finished with his dinner. Mr. Toliver, if you would keep your knife handy until I say otherwise, I would appreciate it."

Radamacher rose and left the back room quickly. Toliver made sure Neal understood his anxiousness to play with sharp objects.

A few beats later, Lorenzo D'Amichi from the Italian Delegation entered, wine glass and a brief case in his hands. His cheeks were flushed from the beverage, and there was a tiny spot of some cream-based sauce decorating his expensive silk tie.

"Signor D'Amichi," Neal said. "_Sono sorpreso di vederti."_

"I am somewhat surprised myself," D'Amichi said in near-perfect English. "I missed my flight, so it seems. Fortunately, the Etruscan is on its way to its new home. But for me, I will stay one more night before returning."

"And we appreciate your time," Kramer told D'Amichi. "So, let us not waste it. Can you verify that our friend has indeed delivered the goods as promised?"

D'Amichi peered closely at the krater, lifted it from the case, then turned it upside down and gave it a shake.

A tiny piece of colorful cellophane, compressed into a tiny ball, rolled out and fell on the table.

It was a wrapping from an Italian hard candy.

Neal's eyes widened. This was certainly unexpected, though he did remember seeing the man, while conducting his earlier examination of the artifact, unwrap the candy and pop it into his mouth.

"I dropped this inside, just in case, just to save us a bit of time. So, unless your thief is also a magician… _This_ is the real Etruscan krater."

Kramer smiled, satisfied. "Grazie."

"Prego," said D'Amichi with a slight bow. "And now…"

D'Amichi placed the brief case on the table and opened it. All stared at its contents: several stacks of perfect American $100 bills filling it to the brim, practically exploding from it.

"…the agreed upon amount. I would not be offended if you wished to count it, Signor Kramer."

"That won't be necessary. The Etruscan is all yours."

D'Amichi laughed as he closed and locked the larger case filled with his prize.

"It was a pleasure doing business with you."

He winked at Neal. "And you…" he said, looking at Neal, "You are a very talented artist, I am told. There was a time all you could look forward to was years of thankless toil, the cruelty of critics and poverty. If you are lucky, some modicum of fame, posthumously. But now, five percent of that money is yours. This is better, no?"

"Much better," said Neal, "and very generous. _Gratzie, Signor_."

"Perhaps you will be available in the future for me? If Signor Kramer allows, of course. I could use a man of your talents and resources."

"You know where to find me."

"Until then." To the rest, he said, "If you will all excuse me, I have another plane to catch quite early in the morning."

With that, D'Amichi left.

Kramer pulled out two thick stacks of bills and tossed them on the table in front of Neal.

"Good job."

"Thank you, sir."

"Try not to spend it all in one men's shop. Somebody pour some champagne. We've got some celebrating to do."

~WC~

Atwater's cab pulled up across the street from P. Jay's , parked obscurely under a massive, slightly leaning tree, which bathed it in shadow from the street lights. Neal was a few minutes late for their appointed meet, but he knew better than most that a slight delay did not always mean a hitch in the plan. He waited patiently, making sure that Jimmy was loaded and ready. Just in case.

Inside P. Jays, while the main room was being cleaned and vacuumed by exhausted wait staff and tips were being counted out and distributed, Kramer and his crew were finally beginning to break up their celebration.

"I still don't trust him," Toliver said to Kramer as the older Agent was slipping back into this black suit jacket.

"Neither do I," said Kramer. "But he did the job. He delivered. And you're several thousand dollars richer. If you're miffed about Neal getting a cut of the kitty…you can always quit."

Kramer took hold of the brief case and headed for the door.

"Good night all. Neal…"

"Sir?"

"Don't be late tomorrow."

Neal said nothing, merely grabbed his hat and slipped it on his head.

Once Kramer was gone, Neal instantly felt the tension in the room shift; there was serious hostility from the rest of the crew. Fear rippled down his spine like ice water. He should have run for the exit, perhaps followed Kramer out, but instincts bade him to stroll easy.

Toliver blocked his way. Radamacher came up behind him. It was like being cornered by pit bulls, Neal imagined. Actually, it was worse. Before Toliver could say a word or make a move, Perkins stood and merely cleared his throat. A beat, and the two pit bulls stepped away.

"I'd like a minute with Caffrey," said Perkins. Neal shuddered when he noticed the logistics man pulling back his jacket to reveal a Beretta tucked inside his belt.

Once Toliver and Radamacher were gone, Perkins approached, never blinking, never taking his steely eyes off Neal. He was tall, built like a brick wall, and had the look of a stern and disapproving father.

He merely nodded once.

Neal got the message – _I just saved your sorry butt. You owe me – _and nodded back once in acknowledgement before leaving.

He didn't understand Perkins' motives, but it was good to know there was someone on the team that didn't necessarily want to see him bleed.

But now he also owed the man a favor. Not a great position to find oneself in, Neal mused, as he raced out of P. Jays and across the street to Atwater's waiting cab.

~WC~

Neal slid into the front seat of the air conditioned cab, leaving the sticky evening humidity behind. Reginald smiled.

"How'd it go?"

"By the numbers," Neal said, and handed a small wad of one hundred dollar bills to Atwater.

"Pleasure doing business with you."

"I think you missed your calling, Mr. Atwater. That car accident looked pretty authentic."

"I'm a little too honest to make a habit of it."

Atwater then passed Neal a burner phone, which he immediately dialed.

"Peter?"

"Neal! I was expecting to hear from you hours ago…"

"Sorry for the delay. Did you run a check on Kramer's crew?"

"I did. Nothing out of the ordinary, but I've got Jones doing a little extra digging off hours. Soon as something pops up, we'll get word to Mozzie."

"Great. I'm particularly interested in Perkins. He's a little different from the rest of the crew. Can't put my finger on it…"

"What happened with the Etruscan?"

"You talked to Moz?"

"He's keeping me up to speed. Did your fake pass inspection?"

"Little did I know, a member of the Italian Delegation hired Kramer to make the switch. His name is Lorenzo D'Amichi, and at this very moment he's about to hop a plane to who knows where with the artifact, after paying a substantial finder's fee to Kramer."

"Of which, I presume, you received a generous cut?"

"Five per cent. Less a little used to grease a few wheels," he said, sending a grin Atwater's way. "You told me I could keep whatever I made. Were you serious?"

"I just want Kramer."

"Great. Because I need to do something with the money that requires your help."

"This doesn't sound good, Neal…"

"It's not illegal, I promise. I'm sending cash to you by way of Mozzie. I'd like you to contact Doctor Denise Runyon at the D.C. Jail."

"Your doctor after your attack. How's that shank wound doing, anyway?"

"Still healing. I want you to arrange with her to have that money given to the family of Vernon Hackett."

"Your cell mate…are you sure?"

"Yeah," Neal said quickly. He didn't realize that he was still smarting after of the little guy's sad demise. "If there's no family, maybe Dr. Runyon can find some charity she can donate it to in his name."

"I'll take care of it, Neal."

"Thanks, Peter.

"Any idea what Kramer has planned next?"

"He plays it pretty close to the vest. Soon as I get wind of the next job, I'll get word to you via Mozzie. What about D'Amichi?"

"We'll see if we can pick him up at JFK, convince him to work with us, see what he knows."

"Sounds good."

"You be careful, Neal. Keep your head down and watch your back."

"You don't have to tell me twice, Peter. Hey, how's Elizabeth?"

"She's good. She worries about you being out there all alone."

"Does she?"

He knew it meant Peter was just as worried.

"Tell her I've got friends. Tell her I'm not alone and I'll be fine."

Neal disengaged the call and handed the burner phone back to Atwater, who said, "I'll toss it in the Potomac before I head home."

~WC~

As Neal stepped into the Willard lobby and crossed to the elevator, he got the distinct impression he was being followed.

This was different – Kramer's surveillance guys merely kept eyes on Neal. This man was making an approach.

Neal stopped at the hotel's closed gift shop, pretending that some expensive chotchkie had caught his eye. He watched through the glass and saw better the man lurking behind him, not bothering to keep his distance. He was not overly tall, but stocky. African American, wearing a suit.

He was reaching inside his jacket. No doubt for his gun.

Neal moved toward the elevators quickly.

The tail followed him. As he came around the corner Neal leaped, pushing the man up against the wall between gold toned elevator doors.

"Who are you working for!" Neal demanded before realizing who it was he had just assaulted.

Agent Gaines pushed Neal away and pulled his weapon just as an elevator signaled its arrival with a DING. When the doors parted, Gaines pushed Neal inside and shoved the gun hard below his rib cage, reminding Neal that he still hand some healing to do.

"I want to know what the hell's going on!" Gaines said angrily.

"I don't know what you're talking about…"

"What is Agent Kramer up to? And what's your part in it?"

_End chapter 6. _

_Sorry for the delay, but there were a few tragedies and misfortunes, all happening one after the other and I just didn't have the heart…but I'm back on track to some degree, and hope it will be less than 2 weeks before chapter 7 gets posted. If you are in any way entertained by this story, I hope you will kindly write a review. And apologies for any liberties with reality taken…I just want to tell a fun story! Thanks for reading!_


	7. Chapter 7

Free Me If You Can

Chapter 7

By

Lacadiva

Rating: PG-13/R for violence. Disclaimer: All rights belong to Jeff Eastin and the awesome White Collar gang. This break from the show is killin' me! Anybody else out there Jones-ing for a new eppy like me?

_Summary: Post-Judgment Day – a different take. Peter doesn't signal Neal, and Neal is arrested and faces life – or death – in prison. What kind of a dangerous game is Kramer playing? And if Neal plays along, will Peter be able to free him from his deal with the devil before Kramer gets Neal killed?_

_Note: I'm taking a few liberties just for the sake of storytelling. So if there are glaring inaccuracies, please forgive and indulge me. It's all for fun anyway, right?_

_Additional note: Sorry for the long delay. I've been writing for pay, trying to pay my rent. So I got a few projects out of the way…back to fanfic! Thanks for your kind patience._

~WC~

FROM CHAPTER 6

"_Who are you working for?" Neal demanded before realizing who it was he had just assaulted._

_Agent Gaines pushed Neal away and pulled his weapon just as an elevator signaled its arrival with a DING. When the doors parted, Gaines pushed Neal inside and shoved the gun hard below his rib cage, reminding Neal that he still had some healing to do._

"_I want to know what the hell's going on!" Gaines said angrily. _

"_I don't know what you're talking about…"_

"_What is Agent Kramer up to? And what's your part in it?"_

CHAPTER 7

Gaines slammed a powerful fist against the stop button and the elevator car lurched and fell still. Neal was against the wall, staring unblinkingly at the cold steel barrel of Gaines' service weapon.

"Listen to me," Neal pleaded, breathless and adrenaline-fed, "Kramer has me under constant surveillance. If he even suspects you're on to him…"

"So it's true…Kramer's dirty. I knew it…I knew it…"

Neal noticed that almost instantly the Agent's anger burned less hot, as if some part of his spirit had been pierced and deflated. Still, his blinking, furious eyes remained upon Neal.

"Agent Gaines, listen to me…we're on candid camera right now."

Neal's blue eyes indicated the small security camera he was certain would be located in the dome-shaped light fixture just above their heads.

"If Kramer sees the security feed," he continued, "you'll be a threat, and so will I. And I don't think he would be above killing us."

Gaines roughly released Caffrey and backed away, looking up, searching for and finding what Neal, by years of experience, knew so well: the eye of the security camera watched them, passively collecting digital information that could easily seal their doom.

"We can't talk here," said Neal adamantly, only a beat before Gaines could voice the same conclusion.

"Where, then?"

~WC~

Neal swiped his room card and pushed the fogged over glass door open to the indoor swimming pool room. No one was there, and the only light came from the tile walls of the pool itself, creating a colorful prismatic show on the high white ceiling. The steaminess hit them immediately, humidity clinging to their skin like a vaporous second layer and causing their clothing to feel damp and heavy upon them. The entire room smelled sharply of chlorine and laundered towels overly scented with lilac and lavender.

The pool looked so very inviting, Neal thought. So cool, silent, and clean. The deep end beckoned him to slip under the surface and partake of the joy and tranquility of a watery world without Kramer in it. But now was not the time for a casual dip.

Anticipating that Gaines might shove his weapon in Neal's face again, he put his hands out self- protectively; hoping to calm rather than further incite the agent's resurfacing ire.

"I'm not armed," Neal said as quickly and calmly as he could. "I have nothing on me that could be considered a weapon, and before you rush to judgment, I'm playing for the good guys."

"I find that hard to believe," said Gaines, gun still in hand but held down at his side. "I've seen your jacket, Caffrey. I read everything I could get my hands on about you. Phil Kramer went to a helluva lot of trouble to have you transferred here. I want to know why. Why does he want you here so bad? I know what every agent in Art Crimes is investigating, and nothing requires your particular brand of bad to break the case. So what's Kramer's plan? What's his endgame?"

"I don't have all the answers yet," said Neal, lowering his hands.

"When you do, you're going to tell me everything."

"Id' be happy to, under one condition."

Gaines brought the gun up again, just a bit, enough to communicate to Neal that former con had very little rope with which to play.

Neal continued. "Watch my back. That's all I ask."

"Why? What do you have to be afraid of? You're Kramer's golden boy."

"I'm Kramer's pawn. His investment in me goes only as far as my usefulness. I'm out to stop him."

Gaines took a threatening step closer to Neal.

"Why would you do that, _Neal Caffrey_, master thief? Conman. _Liar_. You lie as easily as you breathe."

"Call Peter Burke, White Collar Unit, Manhattan…."

"Your old handler?"

"Yes. And my friend. Contact him on a secure line…a burner phone. I'll give you the number. He knows what I am doing."

"So you're saying this…what...some deep cover operation sanctioned by the bureau?"

"Not exactly…"

"Then it's a plot, and Burke is dirty, too."

Neal was surprised to feel the sudden rush of heat, an anger burning in him at Gaines' accusation. Peter Burke, dirty?

"If hell was a frozen tundra and pigs were top gun aviators," Neal said, angrier than he meant to, "even then, Peter would still be the last truly honest man standing. He's the most…no…only…honest man I know. I've never risked my own life for anyone before. But I would for him. I have. And I'd do it again."

"That," Gaines said as he not only lowered the weapon, but returned it to his side holster, "is the first believable thing you've said tonight."

The Agent turned to stare into the pool, watch the water gently rippling.

"Philip Kramer was my mentor. Like a father. I admired the hell out of the man. He plucked me out of the academy and brought me to Art Crimes. I wanted homicide."

Gaines turned back to Neal, the hurt on his face obvious and deep.

"I followed every one of Kramer's cases, watched his every move, practically, hoping to become half the agent he is…was. And now, to find out the man's dirty..."

"Kramer had a lot of people close to him fooled," said Neal, thinking of Peter, hurting a little inside. It must have been devastating for him, too.

"But he didn't fool you, Caffrey. How'd that happen? How'd you know?"

Neal unbuttoned and opened his suit jacket, pulled his shirt loose from his waist and yanked the shirt up high, revealing his tortured black and blue ribs and the weeping bandaged wound.

"Philip Kramer arranged to have my fellow inmates do this to me," Neal said, jaw tight at the memory of every assault, every beating.

"How do you know? Maybe they just didn't like your face."

"Kramer told me. Hell, he bragged about it. First, he set me up, had me arrested. I was looking at living the rest of my life behind bars. The beatings started when I turned down his offer to be his C.I. Every time I woke up in the infirmary, there he was, gloating, threatening me. Telling me my only ticket out of hell was to be his errand boy.

"He orchestrated everything. Even the guards were paid to turn a blind eye." Neal winced as he peeled the bandage back so Gaines could see for himself the severity of the angry rent flesh, stitched and healing but still hard to look at.

Gaines didn't cringe or look away, but Neal could see that the young agent was pierced by what he saw, more than by what he had already heard. Here lay proof of his fallen mentor's corruption.

"The man who shanked me," Neal continued, "is dead. He hung himself, apparently, after Kramer terrorized him."

Neal dropped his shirt and re-tucked his shirt, straightened his tie.

"You can feel sentimental about Agent Kramer all you want, but I'm taking him down, with or without you."

"With," said Gaines. "Tell me everything you know."

"Kramer isn't working alone. He has a crew, all ex-feds, military and black ops types..."

"I want names."

"You try to run a check on those names here and Kramer will know you're on to him."

"Give me something I can use, Caffrey."

"I don't know Kramer's endgame, but I do know his objective. He's trying to amass a huge payday for himself and the rest of his crew. Guess he's a little disgruntled with the Bureau's retirement plan."

"Where do you come into play?"

"The obvious answer is there's something big he wants me to steal."

"This better not be some long con you're trying to pull, Caffrey. Or I will kick your skinny butt all the way to Riker's Island. For now, I got your six."

"My six?"

"Yeah," Gaines said as he headed for the door. "I got your back."

~WC~

"Good morning, Mr. Caffrey."

Agent Spears' sunny disposition and borderline flirtatiousness was a welcome reminder to Neal that the entire world wasn't going to hell in a hand basket. There were still a few innocents left, and lighter moments to be had. He gave her a genuine smile that died quickly when he realized that, just across the way, Kramer was watching him.

The Agent looked quite serious, quite stern and sour, as if dark matters of great import were churning in his head. Neal had a prickly feeling that the true nature of his dark thoughts was…Neal Caffrey.

He knew.

He had to know about Gaines.

Neal cast a quick glance in the direction of Gaines' desk area. The young agent was on the phone, scribbling notes. He looked up to see Caffrey gazing his way and merely nodded, then turned his back to concentrate on the work at hand. He had no idea the trouble that lay waiting for them both. Neal had to get a message to Gaines, let him know that it was more than possible that Kramer was on to them.

Before Neal could head back for his office, Kramer, looking like a displeased father, or Peter Burke at level ten anger and disappointment, pointed and crooked his index and middle finger at Neal.

The Finger Point.

Kramer had just given him the finger point. His sour expression never changed as Neal smiled and nodded acknowledgement.

It was a long walk to Kramer's office.

~WC~

Neal felt his heart beating faster. His natural inclination to run, to flee, kicked in hard, like default programming. But there was no place to run, nothing to do but go with this program.

"Good morning, sir. I was just on my way to tell you…"

"Sit down," said Kramer. The Agent's voice had a deeper than normal tone to it that was ominous and condemning, letting Neal know that he was in deep trouble.

He obeyed, taking a seat across from Kramer's desk. They sat in discomforting silence for a few beats until Kramer broke it with a disturbing observation.

"I hear you had a visitor last night."

The first thing Neal noticed was Kramer's eyes shifting to glance at his laptop screen. It dawned on him immediately, sending an icy chill up his spine and sending hot pins and needles to the base of his head: Someone had spied on them and taken pictures, or worse, Kramer had acquired the security video from the Willard.

Fast work, Neal mused. There must be an awful lot at stake.

Neal imagined his impromptu meeting with Agent Gaines splashed on the screen indicting and endangering them both. He kept his expression calm and innocent, then communicated irritation, hoping to downplay the nature of Gaines' purpose, as if the confrontation had been not a threat, but merely an annoyance. The moment required, Neal mused, exactly what he was best at: subtle misdirection, deflection, and obfuscation.

"Agent Gaines," said Neal, not as if confessing, but as if informing, "showed up out of nowhere last night at the hotel. I was just on my way to tell you in person," he lied quite smoothly. "Agent Spears stopped me."

"What did he want, Neal?"

"Apparently Gaines is suspicious of me. With good reason, of course. He did his homework, like any good agent, and knows my background. Thought I should know a few ground rules if I expected to survive here at Art Crimes."

"So Gaines hung out at The Willard last night, waiting for you to come home, just so he could tell you to keep your nose clean?"

"It's a little more to it than that, sir," Neal said. "Gaines has a tremendous amount of respect for you. Says you're like a father to him. Taught him everything he knows. His motive was to make sure I don't do anything to disgrace or besmirch your sterling reputation. He put a gun to my face to warn me that if I screwed up in the least, that if it cost you your job or your pension that he was going to make me pay."

"I see. What did you tell him?"

"I told him," said Neal, "that I wouldn't dream of doing anything to disgrace or besmirch you."

"And he believed you? He went on his merry way and you trundled back to your room?"

Kramer's eyes darted to his computer screen again.

"Not exactly," Neal said. "But I have a feeling you already know that, sir."

Kramer swiveled the screen to face Neal, revealing a paused security video of Neal and Gaines entering the pool room. With a click of the mouse, the video began to run.

He was grateful that while there might be damaging images, there would be no audio. So unless Kramer was good with lip reading there was no way to immediately corroborate his version of the story.

Kramer clicked the mouse once more, changing the onscreen image of the two men.

"He made me use my key card to open the pool room. I figured he was going to knock me around a little in private, threaten me with wet towels. Fortunately, he was just trying to scare me."

"Did he?"

"A little, yeah," Neal admitted, "until I reminded him he was a federal agent and pledged to do the right thing. Guess it got to him. The badge. The honor. You know. So he let me go."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that," echoed Neal.

"And you're confident that he doesn't suspect anything…."

"Only my motives. His confrontation was nothing more than a sentimental gesture, an attempt to protect the reputation of his mentor. He's no threat. But if he becomes one, I'll take care of it."

Kramer regarded Neal with narrowed, knowing eyes. The younger man could not hide the sudden urge to shudder.

Kramer stood and buttoned his jacket. "Take a walk with me," he said.

~WC~

They walked two blocks down Pennsylvania Avenue before Kramer another spoke a word.

"The time has come to fill you in on the job."

Neal didn't want to appear too anxious, or too nonchalant. He kept walking, giving Kramer all the time he wished to divulge the true nature of Neal's reason for being there.

A quick look around revealed that the men were standing in front of an executive men's sports club. Kramer smiled and reached for the door, opening it and ushering Neal inside.

"Let's have a sweat."

~WC~

Neal was never a big fan of saunas, or anything that required him to sit still and simply…be…for extended periods of time. His mind raced too fast and too furiously, making it virtually impossible to relax enough to enjoy the moment. Painting was better, sculpting better than that. Having a coffee while painting or sculpting was his optimum ideal method of unwinding, letting his right brain get a creative work out while the left side could leisurely plan, plot, scheme, rehearse and process information. This hot, stuffy, steam-filled artificial grotto was a little outside of his comfort zone. And he felt quite vulnerable.

He stepped into the sauna room, waving away some of the billowing steam and found a natural stone area to sit. Readjusting the thick white cotton towel around his slim waist, making sure the bandage stayed covered and protected, he moved the other towel hanging around his neck to cover part of his head as he sat. He found it surprisingly comfortable as he let his back rest against the warm, natural stone wall.

Kramer entered, immediately going to the steam regulator and turning it up. The effect of the increased heat and vapors was felt by both men immediately.

The older man sat across from Neal and stared, elbows on his knees.

Neal smiled a crooked, uncomfortable smile. "I get it…why the steam room. You wanted to make sure I wasn't wearing a wire. And show me you're not either."

"Smart man. Go on."

"It's also difficult to conceal a weapon or bug a room like this…the moisture…ambient noise. So, what's the job?"

Kramer sat back, breathing in the steam, relishing the heat.

"Having a good sweat, according the Native Americans, is purifying. Cleansing."

"Feel the need to come clean about something?"

The older agent said nothing right away, but focused his steely eyed glare on Neal's big blues.

"You, Neal Caffrey, have landed in the middle of a very sensitive operation. This investigation has taken me almost five years to break. It's beyond frustrating. The men on the crew, all were deployed to Iraq, where they met and formed an alliance. Toliver was dishonorably discharged…"

"Not surprising," Neal quipped.

"Radamacher has a genuine psychological disorder which helped him avoid redeployment. Perkins was a career officer until unfortunate allegations of theft monkey wrenched the man's life."

"Theft of what?" Neal asked.

"Iraqi gold."

Neal felt the dampened hairs on the back of his neck try to stand up despite the moisture.

"All this for Iraqi gold?"

"We're not talking about a few trinkets…we're talking a king's ransom, a massive fortune."

"Ball park it for me. "

"Something to the tune of forty-two million, black market."

"I like that tune."

"I thought you would."

"So what's the plan?"

"That, my boy, is why you are here. The gold is being kept in various secure locations. I'll give you all the specs later. Your job, criminal boy wonder, is to come up with a plan to liberate all that beautiful stolen gold. And help me put those men away forever."

"I'm not sure I follow…which side are you playing? Shirts or skins?"

"Both," said Kramer. "Toliver is a dangerous sociopath. Radamacher, not so bad but he tends to do whatever Toliver tells him to. Perkins…rumor has it he went a little above and beyond…there may have a few civilian deaths. Our boys are over there putting their lives on the line, sacrificing everything, while those three knuckleheads meet and hatch a plot to smuggle gold into the country endangering the lives of soldiers and civilians alike. There were arrests, inquiries, investigations, but no evidence was found. And after weeks of interrogations, the charges were dropped. They belong in prison, all of them. I know what they're capable of. I've seen them in action. I know what they've done."

"You're a little out of your jurisdiction, aren't you?"

"Not so much."

"Just a little off the books." Neal nodded. "So this is about putting three sociopaths away…"

"…_and_ getting the gold," Kramer finished. "The way I see it, splitting a fortune two ways is far better than four ways."

"Five," Neal corrected him.

"As you say."

"Sounds intriguing. However…"

"Go on."

"Your willingness to throw those men under a bus doesn't make me feel very secure about my position."

"Understandable. Like I said, splitting it two ways is easier…"

"But nothing like not splitting it at all."

Kramer smile and sat back.

"I understand your reticence, my boy."

"With all due respect," Neal said forcefully, "you don't. You nearly had me killed in jail."

"You want an apology? Take twenty million instead."

Kramer stood, but instead of heading for the door, he sat next to Neal.

Neal remained still, wondering what the agent had in mind.

"I'm considering removing your surveillance detail."

"I appreciate your trust."

"No, it's not trust. People are starting to talk, ask questions. I need you to call a little less attention to yourself, keep a low profile, and do your work. Stop flirting with the female agents. And no bonding with the men. Specifically Gaines. This is crunch time, Caffrey. If we succeed, you get to spend the rest of your life anywhere you want in the world as a very rich man. If we fail…"

Kramer put a hot hand on Neal's left hand. Neal, caught off guard, moved to pull his hand away. But Kramer held his hand tightly. The older man had a surprisingly vice-like grip.

"Ever broken a finger, Neal?"

And then he took old of Neal's pinky finger and force it back hard, in an unnatural direction. Neal heard the sound of the wet-snap of bone and tendons a split second before it registered what Kramer had actually done, a split second before Neal could pull his hand away, a split second before he uncontrollably yelled out loud.

"Hurts like hell, doesn't it?" Kramer asked sadistically.

Neal doubled over, holding his hand close to him, hoping the break wasn't nearly as severe as it felt or looked. He wanted to hop up and beat Kramer down – old or not – until the crooked agent begged for mercy.

Neal fought to control his breathing, clarify his thoughts to proper action and keep the threatening nausea from overwhelming him. He looked up at Kramer, regarding him with murderous eyes.

Kramer just smiled.

"Easy, boy. I'm not enemy here. I just did you a favor. The crew seems to think I'm too soft on you. This should satisfy them and keep them off your back for a while."

"I owe you," Neal said through hard-grinding teeth.

Kramer adjusted his towel and headed for the exit.

"Take the rest of the day off," he told Neal as he walked out. "You might want to have that looked at."

Neal doubled over, feeling the electric throb in his finger magnifying with each beat of his quickening heart. He stood and ambled to the exit, considering all the ways he was going to make the dirty agent pay.

~WC~

A FEW HOURS LATER

They sat in the back booth of Pizzeria Uno drinking not-to-terrible house red wine from oversized glasses.

Mozzie stared at Neal's braced and bandaged digit, shaking his head.

"When do we take that sunnovagun Kramer down?"

Neal observed the swollen, bluish areas of his finger exposed inside the brace, and let his hand rest upon the sticking red and white checked table cloth.

"Not quite yet," he answered. "If this Iraqi gold exits, I need to know where it is. Won't do any of us any good if we move too soon."

"Might I suggest not sitting in close proximity to the Monster Suit in the future?"

Neal downed the last of his wine and reached for the bottle.

"Noted."

"And what about the Good Suit?"

"Gaines? It's healthier if I stay away from him for a bit, too. We'll bring him in when we've got something more substantial."

"I'll call Peter later and tell him …"

"No! Don't tell him. Don't alarm him. Wait till we have a plan in place. You tell him about the gold, he'll start digging…"

"I'll ignore the obvious pun," Mozzie offered.

Neal held his head in his good hand, his right hand, and breathed through the dullish pain that was returning.

"Not so much wine, Neal…mixed with the pain killers, you could…"

"I'M FINE, MOZ!"

Mozzie looked away, for the moment stunned and hurt.

"I'm sorry," Neal said in a softer tone this time. "Kramer is really starting to get to me."

"That's the point. He knows how to hurt…"

Neal perked up for a moment, as the germ of a though became the seed of an idea.

"How do you hurt a greedy man?"

Mozzie smiled. "Take away the object of his greed."

"That's right," said Neal. "How'd you like to split forty-two million with me?"

End Chapter 7

_Hope you liked it. Much more to come. If this moved you at all, I hope you will submit a review, tell me what you think. Hope to have the next chapter up in less than 2 weeks! Thanks again for your kind attention!_


End file.
